1 Thunderbirds Are Go: Hunter
by Math Girl
Summary: The year is 2065, and the world has changed. When two reclamation techs accidentally trigger a nightmare machine from "the conflicts", International Rescue must come to their aid. A Thunderbirds are Go story.
1. Chapter 1

**Thunderbirds are Go: Hunter**

Math Girl

1

 _Thunderbird 5, amidships, in high Earth orbit-_

Mostly, he wanted a beer; cold, slightly bitter, and beaded with condensation, all down the dark bottle. Would have been nice, but alcohol and low-g conditions didn't combine very well. Too disorienting. So, instead, he just drifted, watching the Earth roll by underneath.

It was his favorite time, when Thunderbird 5 hung just over the terminator, and half of the world lay in darkness, glittering softly like Christmas, while half glowed with sunlight. As always, he thought of the world's worst, least edible candy, the jaw-breaker, in some odd sort of blueberry/ lime mashup. His earpiece buzzed like a sleepy hive, most of it not very important, some worth filing for later. Nothing urgent, though. Not for the moment.

"Looks like everyone's decided to play nice, this morning," he murmured, barely audible above the station's constant background hum. Eos picked it up, anyhow, responding with a brief, warm vibration through his earpiece.

Nodding slightly in reply, john became aware of his own reflection, and hers, in the curved perma-glass bubble before him. He saw a tall, rather lanky young man in a blue, form-fitting, cyber-linked space suit and orange International Rescue sash. Straight, red-gold hair drifted slightly around a face that had always struck him (when he saw it at all) as too pretty. Large eyes, neither blue nor green, but somewhere in between (as Grandma liked to rhyme) stared back, then darted aside, not enjoying the scrutiny.

Eos was a lens in the bulkhead behind him; a curving black eye surrounded by pale, starry lights. She was also a presence and a personality; shreds of gaming code he'd written once for something to do, now come to full conscious life… in a manner of speaking.

"Your breakfast is approaching the catch-all grid, John," she reminded him, managing to inject a note of martyred patience into her synthesized voice. He should never have let her binge-watch all those vids. "At its current rate of drift, I estimate that your bagel will reach the grid in approximately 12.2725 seconds, where it will be broken down into particles, swept away and recycled. As raisins, this time, I think."

"I hate raisins," he objected, executing an elegant half-roll and turn in midair.

"Then perhaps you should eat your bagel," she told him, sounding a lot like Grandma. Before he could stretch out and reach for the thing (lightly toasted, and just a little bit buttered), she altered the flow of the observation bubble's air vents, and blew it back his way. She liked to play catch, but tended to cheat by changing the ring's rotational speed to mess with the station's gravity. Despite this, he usually won, having, y'know, _hands_.

"Thanks," he said, fielding the low-skimming bagel, and taking a bite. He was never very hungry up here. Something to do with his inner ear, and the constant vibration. Food just didn't taste the same way as it did downstairs, which was why he liked his meals relatively simple.

The snatch-and-grab had altered his position. He was now head-downward relative to the station's deck, and rotating slightly, with that swooping, top-of-the-rollercoaster feeling that orbital velocity always gave him. Thunderbird 5 was back in full daylight, now, but that would change eight times in the course of his workday. Astrophysics, pure and simple, and very satisfying. That, of course, was when a shrieking distress call came through, and everything went to crap.

 _Tracy Island, mid-afternoon, the dry season-_

Scott had a problem. More to the point, he had no ride, as Thunderbird 1 was in the shop for upgrades. Again. As always, thanks to Brains' incessant need to tinker.

 _'Patience',_ he thought to himself. _'I can be patient. I'm a level-headed guy. It's part of his job. It's what he does. Deep breath. One… two… three… four…'_

Brains was enthusing away, gesticulating wildly over the holo-projector; wild-eyed passion rendered in miniature.

"…Over seventy-five percent more eh- efficient, and speed! You will break many times over the sound barrier!"

Which, strictly speaking, was already the case; but Dr. Hackenbacker chased lightspeed the way some men chased females, so back in the shop went Thunderbird 1, his particular baby. Scott forced a smile and held up both hands, palm outward, in a gesture of mock surrender.

"Whoa, okay… I get it, Brains. Zippy and cheap. Just, make it a _quick_ upgrade, please? I hate being grounded."

He was pacing the living room, forcing Brains' holo to track him. The image flickered a lot in consequence. Obscurely, this made Scott feel better. Still damp from his post-run shower, wearing jeans and an old camo tank top, he looked like, and was, a confident young man, well accustomed to risk and command. Especially since his father's… Well, since dad had left the picture, Scott had had to take charge. He was handsome, too. Or, so they told him. Dark haired and blue-eyed, with a pair of exactly matched dimples, he was nevertheless somewhat awkward around women. Came of living on an island, surrounded by brothers, he supposed. Still, back to the issue at hand…

Brains had resumed talking, this time spouting a lot of physics mumbo-jumbo that John would have snapped up like candy, but was utter nonsense to Scott.

"Great. Sounds good," the pilot interrupted, somehow maintaining the smile. "So, what d'you figure, Brains? An hour? Two?"

The engineer's image paused in mid speech, looking hurt. Taking off his spectacles, Brains gave them a quick, nervous wipe on his shirt, cleared his throat and said,

"Th- there is no rushing the search for perfection, Scott. P- pulling a Ming vase from the flame too soon, yields nothing b- but shards."

Yeah… definitely hurt.

"Right. I get that, Brains, only no one's depending on a Ming vase to save lives and put the halt on chaos. Just…"

"Tracy Island, from Thunderbird 5."

A second, better focused image appeared beside Brains'. John, it was, oriented a bit sideways and bobbing slightly; one arm extended to brace himself against something that did not appear in the holo. Instantly, Scott forgot everything else.

"John! What's going on, Little Brother?" It had been just Scott, then the two of them, for four and a half years before the others came along. They had history. "A situation?"

"And then some. You'd better sit down."

 _Earlier, the Free States of Britain, former UK-_

Nigel Plumber made a final adjustment to his instrument box, giving the battered device a fond, loving pat. He was depth-finding out in the field, searching for shielded rooms and bunkers beneath the ruins of Edinburgh. Old, savage conflict had brought down the city, if not most of its people. Unfortunately, it had also left behind stockpiles of fading tech and unstable ammo, and these had to be charted.

You wanted to look sharp, before you went about digging a foundation, here. You could never be certain of what lay beneath. Thus, Nigel, his assistant, Rayna, and their depth-finding gear. Rather a misnomer, that. Yes, the instruments scanned; producing a wide-band signal that would ping off of buried metals, echo in caverns, and vibrate against whatever was left of the poor souls who'd sought shelter below ground, all those raw, horrid years ago. But it also picked up and responded to binary signals, announcing the presence of any leftover self-willed mechanicals. Strictly against the law, those were, designed to stalk a battlefield and mow down whole armies, following nothing but their own mostly degraded AI programming. Monsters of sick legend, all blades, guns and power.

Not that he'd ever found such, himself. He'd heard stories, though. Old Lucky Ned, in the fifth quadrant, had once tripped off an unstable cluster bomb, getting away with his life by the skin of God's eye-teeth. Gladys had lost a few petals, though.

It had not been a very exciting day so far, apart from the auld fuel depot they'd turned up. Still, in their business, slow was good. The people with the best stories generally had the fewest whole limbs, and they deserved every free drink they got. Nigel was quite attached to each of his limbs, and intended to remain so.

A dry, chilly wind hissed around the slag heaps and girders, tugging at Nigel's bright orange work suit. Beside him, and a little before, Rayna tapped away at her specially shielded data pad. The earth here was cracked, grey and sere; as much melted concrete as soil and rust. A complete desert on the surface. Looks were deceiving, though. Lots to be found here, some of it useful.

Humming to himself, Nigel upped the gain on his signal.

"Prepare to log in a final series, Rayn," he called over his helmet comm to the other reclamation tech. "We'll do an additional hectare, then head…"

 **THUD.** _Zzzzt- clk._ **THUD.**

"Oy, what was that?!"

Rayna turned round to face him, her eyes grey and wide behind the helmet glass.

"I dunno, Nige! Did you trip sumthin', then?"

"No!" he shot back, voice cracking with panic. "It's been nuthin' but bunkers and motor pools, all the way down! What could've…?"

 **THUD!** Louder, this time, accompanied by a swelling bulge in the ground before them, and a trickle of loose, showering rocks.

"Nigel, I think we should…"

His assistant never completed her statement. A sudden blast of red light tore the ground open. Dirt and stone fountained hundreds of feet in the sky, and a tarnished, clattering, nightmare burst forth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hunter: 2**

 _Beneath the Pacific Ocean, along the former coastline of old California-_

Besides swimming and eating, what Gordon Tracy loved to do best was map submerged ruins. (And not just because, in the back of his mind, he was always hunting for traces of Dad.) Occasionally, this got him into real trouble, exactly because he'd never met a hazard he didn't long to investigate. Brash. That was the term. Or, possibly: "Disinclined to back down or be overshadowed. Ever."

All was peaceful at that moment, however. Gordon was simply down there in Thunderbird 4, approaching the intersection of Hollywood and Vine.

"Must've been a beautiful city, once," he mused aloud, trying to imagine the streets whizzing with traffic, the buildings thriving with folk. Now, there were fish, eels, the odd octopus, a few million crabs, and tons of coral accretion. Attractive, in a way… and eerie. From time to time, he took pictures for upload to 5, or used 4's grappling arms to shift a bit of debris. Mostly, though, he left things alone, letting his lights play slowly across all that mankind had been forced to abandon.

He was perfectly at home in Thunderbird 4, as shown by the piles of discarded protein bar wrappers and smudged surfaces, and could happily stay down for weeks. The water purifier and food mech seldom glitched, the chemical toilet worked fine, and he never tired of the ocean, whatever its mood.

He was a fair-haired, compact young man, newly turned twenty, with hazel eyes and the muscular build of a swimmer; broad in the shoulders and chest. His nose had been broken once, in what he earnestly told Grandma was a "falling downstairs at university" incident, and his cheekbones were wide. No matter. In swim trunks or board shorts, almost nobody noticed his face. Not that there was anyone around to look, just then.

Here for more than just pleasure, Gordon was tagging the taller ruins with "pingers" and "screamers"; navigational beacons that would warn boats, recreational subs, and sea life away from the more dangerous and unstable buildings. Hazardous, pains-taking work, and exactly his sort of challenge.

Gordon had just set his tenth warning beacon. Now he was using 4's arms to fix it in place on the skeletal roof of the Wilshire Grand Tower, when his comm beeped to life, and a sudden holo appeared. Virgil, it was, looking slightly annoyed.

"Up and out, Bro," the image commanded, glancing briefly aside at something not in comm range. "Time to go home."

 _"Already?"_ Gordon objected, letting the Sea Bird's arms drop a sharp, twisted girder. "But I just got here! There's still a crap-ton of rubbish to tag!"

"Yeah. Scott says ASA-Now, Tadpole, and we…"

"…don't keep the old man waiting," Gordon joined his brother's mantra, repeating what they'd always said about Dad, applied now to Scott. "On my way. What's going on?"

"Don't know yet, but it's major. Impression I get is, we'd be teleporting, if we had the equipment. Now, move."

"Right, then. Heading up."

"Check. See you topside for pickup in five minutes. Strap in tight, we're using emergency evac protocol."

"Whoa… _that_ good, huh?"

They'd only used E squared- P twice before; once, when Thunderbird 4 had sprung a big leak while laden with rescued scientists, and again when Gordon's appendix had burst, out in the Mediterranean. With no time at all for fancy maneuvers, Virge had just flown in low and magnetically grappled Thunderbird 4, pulling the sub in tight to his fuselage, then slapping an aerodynamic force shield over them both.

"Like I said, he's in a hurry. Now, shut up and shift your mass."

"You're the one flying the giant green tub, Virgil. I could probably breast-stroke home faster."

"Ha, very ha, comedian. Be there, or miss all the action."

Gordon grinned, at that.

"Emergency broach it is, then. Beat you to the spot, and loser buys…"

"Root beer. You're still underage, Bro. See you in three."

Gordon rolled his eyes. Brothers. Why did he have to have so _many,_ most of them older, and fussy as hens? Sighing, he flushed all the ballast at once, with the smash of a single red button. Immediately, the sub was rocked by a gargantuan whooshing noise, a sudden crazed shudder, and then Thunderbird 4 shot upward to daylight, trailing bubbles like an undersea comet. She burst from the waves like a broaching whale, spinning in midair thanks to a bit of rudder at just the crucial moment.

Gordon whooped aloud for sheer joy and exhilaration, suddenly airborne like a GDF Sky-Diver. Just as the Sea Bird would've arced and come down again, with the mother of all almighty splashes, something clamped hold and lifted her higher. It felt exactly like having an MRI in a high-speed elevator. He saw colored lights, heard a deep humming noise, and felt waves of distinct, pulsing vibration; all the hallmarks of a really powerful magnetic field.

A huge, blunt shadow passed overhead, and the waters were flattened like glass, beneath it; pressed down by impellers mighty enough to lift a skyscraper nearly to orbit. Thunderbird 2.

"Looks like a draw, Kiddo. That means…"

"I know," Gordon grumped, dangling in his seat straps as the sub was yanked violently upward. _"Urf…_ Youngest buys. The system is… _urk…_ rigged, and I… _oof…_ protest!"

Aloft in thunderbird 2, Virgil Tracy grinned at his brother's scowling image. Only a year separated them, but he'd always felt much older, probably because he'd been forever hauling Gordon's butt out of fist fights, trouble and assorted misadventures.

"Gotcha. Hold tight, Tadpole. I'm pouring it on. We're getting there last week."

"Right. Just sit back and check my fan mail, shall I?"

"I dunno. Suggest wet-wipes and a uniform change, actually, Bro. You get kind of… _pronounced,_ after a week underwater."

Injured, as always, by the suggestion that days spent below in a smallish tin can left him less than fresh, Gordon cut off the comm.

"Well?" Demanded Scott's image, appearing suddenly over the instrument panel.

"Got him. We're on our way, Scott."

"Good. Hurry. See you back home, ASAP."

And with that, his oldest brother's image vanished from sight, rubbing at a holographic headache. Only twenty-six years old, with already the weight of… well, of pretty much everything Tracy on his shoulders, Scott suffered from frequent migraines.

"Wish you'd let someone help," Virgil muttered, powering his big girl up to full burn. But Scott was terribly stubborn, and fiercely proud. He was trying to be Dad, and maybe killing himself in the process. Virgil would have told him so, but middle brothers didn't get much of a vote. Not enough seniority, OR annoyance.

Scott Tracy listened to John, to Grandma and (sometimes) to Brains. Everything else was politely filled away as mere "suggestion". Maybe time to kick it upstairs… but Virgil never felt that he had more than a quarter of his next oldest brother's attention. Too much else going on, up there. The best time to talk to John was down on the island, with a beer in his hand and the earpiece out, sitting by the pool. Then, mostly, he actually focused on people in fact, rather than frantic signals.

Virgil nodded to himself. Good plan… just as soon as the current dust-up was handled, and they could lure their brother out of his space station fortress. In-and-Out burger. Or cheese pizza. That generally did the trick.

Sitting in the cockpit of Thunderbird 2, Virgil got back to business, checking over gauges and systems that could have run themselves, but didn't have to, because her pilot never trusted to luck. He was a big young man. At twenty-one, already taller than everyone but John. Dark-haired and brown-eyed, he wasn't flashily handsome, but he drew the eye and kept it. Well-muscled, rangy, kind-hearted and bold, especially in the defense of those he loved. That was Virgil Tracy. Now, alone in the cockpit and worried, he said,

"We miss you, Dad… and we're doing our best." Then he flew home, toting one grumpy and redolent brother.

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 _Old Edinburgh, running for their lives-_

"Rayna, NOW!" Nigel screamed, briefly painting a safe path with his laser-sight. He had a weapon, of course (only a suicidal idiot ventured into the ruins without one), but it wasn't doing any good. Depleted uranium darts weren't even chipping the hunter's olive-drab paint. Armored like the devil, himself, it was. Could see across the spectrum, too; from infrared and radio, clear on to X-rays.

Hiding worked for about 2.5 seconds. Then it was on you, again, it's raging, degraded AI having traced your location. All they could do was stay loosely together, dodging crazily amid all the debris, to present two fast, constantly moving targets. That, and shoot at its sensor arrays. Only, it was nearly as large as an old city block, with tank treads, slug throwers, and a storm of bladed and pincer-tipped arms. Also, he was running low on ammo, tiring fast. Help had to come soon, or they were finished. Once again, as Rayna dashed across from one crumbling pile to the next, Nigel tried his comm.

"Please, God, anyone! _Anybody!_ This is team 56, out in Auld Edin… we've tripped a ruddy war machine… can't fight it… can't run much longer! Help us! Send help!"

Static…. Burst of long noise…. Series of rapid clicks…. And then,

"Team 56, this is International Rescue. Help is on the way. Take cover, and try not to act like combatants. Don't shoot. Do you read?"

Nigel nodded. Then, recalling that the comm link wasn't visual, he added,

"Yes! Yes, we read you! No shooting! Please hurry. There's an old building up ahead… will that do?"

Said the cool, far off voice,

"Checking scans… It's the entrance to a bomb shelter. Stairwell's blocked about halfway down, but the shielding should get you out of sight, for a while. Go. I'm sending a scramble-burst. Should blind the thing for a moment or two. Run."

Nigel ran, screaming for Rayna to follow. Above them, the armored monstrosity tore a wild, metallic screech, lashing about itself with all twenty limbs. Lasers cut fiery paths of destruction, like the claws of a maddened god. Explosions burst round them, seemingly everywhere, but the IR trick worked, preventing the hunter from finding its targets. Nigel stumbled over a twisted old section of kerbing, and almost fell, but Rayna grabbed his arm, hauled him upright, and drove him on forward. Somehow, they reached the crumbling shelter's pocked iron door. Unlocked, it was, having been cut through by looters a long time before.

Now, Rayna and Nigel burst through, nearly ripping the door from its lone, rusted hinge. Next, they tumbled downstairs, choosing rather to fall than be sliced in half, or blown up. So much adrenaline in their systems, so much panic, that the fast, rocky drop didn't hurt.

At the bottom, fetched up against a solid wall of rubble and several sad, shattered skulls, Nigel started to reach for his comm, again. Rayna stopped him with a gesture and a quick, savage head-shake, pointing back up at the doorway's dusty and partly blocked light.

 _'Right,'_ he thought. _'It's still out there, listening.'_ Carefully switching the comm off, putting it back in his pocket, Nigel pled silently, _'Please hurry, Rescue! It'll find us, soon. We need help!'_


	3. Chapter 3

Hunter, Chapter 3

 _Tracy Island, the roundhouse, less than an hour later-_

He could work on computerized lessons (which pretty much sucked) or he could try to beat the world record high score at 'Zombie Destruction'. No contest. Alan Tracy was sixteen years old, and pre-conflict poetry had about as much of a grip on his psyche as world economics.

Maybe less, because money mattered, and rhymes were just kid stuff. He couldn't have cared less "How someone loved thee", and _definitely_ didn't want to help "count the ways". Seriously? Grow up. Send her a holo, dude. If she liked what she saw, she'd get in touch. Otherwise, drop it and move on. No sense making the next fifty generations suffer, too!

Zombie killing was another matter, entirely. He was pretty dang sure that, sooner or later, a tide of undead hordes was going to come bursting out of the ocean, dripping seaweed and barnacles, and hungry for brains. And _he,_ Alan R. Tracy, was going to be ready. Not only had he made up his own zombie survival kit, but he'd put one together for each of his brothers, Kayo, Grandma and Max. Not Hackenbacker, because the engineer was completely non-violent, ate nothing but vegetables, and… really… no self-respecting zombie would bother. Celery after-taste, for sure.

Most of them (except for John, who was cool, like that) didn't know that they even _had_ a kit. Alan had snuck in, room by room, brother by friend by robot, and planted the goods. That way, when the house was besieged by scrabbling, decomposing horrors, Alan could tell his grateful fam what to do. Nothing like preparing for the important stuff in life. Well… that, and Thunderbird 3, which kept getting dangled, just out of his reach, by Scott. The frustration was unbearable.

"I can fly, you know!' Al suddenly shouted, forgetting the hordes of undead, and world-record glory. 'Probably better than YOU, Mister Pants-in-a-bunch!"

After all, he'd had about ten million hours of sim-time, plus a thousand, jillion flights with Kayo riding shotgun. That's when John's holo appeared, mostly upright, for once. He must've been out near the station's ring, and Alan was busted.

"I'm studying!" Al blurted, switching apps like a champ.

"No, you're not," said his brother, matter-of-factly. "But I didn't call to check up. You're needed in the den, Al. School can wait."

Alan, halfway to a standing position, thumped back into his seat again, making the rolling chair judder and squeal.

"Me?" Then, as he launched himself forth, "Me! Heck, yeah! I'm on my way, John! Tell 'em to fire up 3!"

The effect was slightly spoiled when Alan tripped over his own big feet vaulting out of the chair. Like his ears, the feet still had to be grown into. On the bright side, John didn't laugh.

"See you downstairs," he said, and flicked out.

Alan actually burst into song as he raced from the roundhouse, taking the stairs three at a time and making up lyrics on the fly. Did manage to sober up a bit before skidding into the sunken meeting room, though, fairly glowing to the ends of his hair, blue eyes on fire.

"Hey, guys! I'm here!" Like a half-grown golden retriever pup, he bounded across the room and threw a fake punch at Gordon, who caught the fist and executed a mock judo-throw.

Kayo rolled her green eyes, Scott's mouth tightened to an iron-hard line, and Brains skittered out of the way. Then Virgil clamped a hand on the backs of their necks, and pulled the two brothers apart, grunting,

"Listen!"

"Right," Gordon replied, doing his best to look serious. "We're all ears… especially Alan!"

"Shut up, Jacktard! We'll settle this later, on the b-ball court!"

John had simply ignored the interruption and kept on talking, being too awesome to do one of those sarcastic _"If everyone's_ _ready,_ " things.

"….appears to be some kind of hunter mech. An Omega-four squad-killer, apparently. There's not much data available about their specs and codes, but this one's got shielding and encryption like nothing I've never seen. I'm impressed."

…and that was saying something. Al exchanged significant looks with Gordon, who'd stopped stuffing his face with spray cheese and crackers long enough to pay attention. Scott leaned forward in his seat.

"So, how do we stop it? Brains, John… ideas?"

"S- still working on that one, Scott, b- but in the meantime, perhaps it would be best to, ah… to rescue the endangered workers," Hackenbacker responded.

"Think the Mechanic's involved?" Virgil asked, going for casual, but bristling like a tomcat. He hadn't forgotten the loss of their father's aircraft, and would never, ever, forgive.

"Doesn't look like it from up here," John told them, frowning in concentration. "I'm scanning for signals, but nothing seems to be directing it. It's a true AI, just… well, in layman's terms, it's insane. Paranoid."

Grandma had come into the room by this time, wearing a primrose yellow velour tracksuit. She directed Max in with a tray of coffee and sandwiches, then said,

"Can't you just override its processor and shut it down, Sweet boy?" They all had their Grandma nicknames, and that one was John's: Sweet boy. Funnily enough, he never complained. (Let anyone but her mention Scott's nickname, though…!)

"Trying, Grandma, but I don't have the proper access codes, yet, and it's defending itself like a beast. In the meantime, I agree with Brains that job one is rescuing Team 56. We've got two potential victims on the ground, in need of immediate evac. They've taken cover, and I'm doing the best I can to distract that thing, but its primary drive is to hunt down and eliminate whatever looks like the enemy. Sooner or later, it's going to head for a major population center, and start reaping."

"Okay," said Scott, thinking fast. "Let's get Birds in the air and boots on the ground, rescue our civilians, and worry about how to finish it off, later. Call Colonel Casey, get her take on the situation." Turning to their engineer, he said, "What's the status on Thunderbird 1? How soon can I launch?"

"Ah… er…" Brains dithered, wringing his hands. "The upgrades are c- coming along, Scott. S- soon, very soon! And perfect than ever before!"

"Brains, listen," Scott told him, clamping two big hands on the slighter man's shoulders. "You want perfection, I'll settle for functional. _Get me in the air!"_

"How 'bout I launch 2, in the meantime, with Gordon and Alan?" Virgil suggested, stretching long limbs.

"I can get there faster in Thunderbird Shadow," said Kayo, rising gracefully and dusting her lap for sandwich crumbs. "Speed and stealth are what I'm all about."

A split-second silence descended, then. No one doubted the girl's abilities, exactly, but it was painful to show up later for action than _she_ did. Still…

"The civilians come first. Good idea, Kayo," John broke the strained moment. "You can get in there and lead them to safety. What do you think, Scott?"

"Yeah. Sure," muttered the pilot, like a man agreeing to pay for a double root canal. "But she's got to have back-up." Pivoting round to face Hackenbacker, he snarled, "Brains, now. Make it happen."

"Y- yes, Scott. Happening momentarily. M- Max, come!"

While Brains scuttled off, followed by the robot, Virgil turned to his younger brothers.

"C'mon, you two. Suit up, and bring whatever you think might help. Gonna have to get creative, on this one."

Grandma kissed all three of them, and ruffled Alan's hair.

"Be careful out there, boys, and don't do anything I wouldn't do. Teddy," she turned her intense blue gaze upon Virgil, "Look after them, and yourself. I'll be waiting to welcome you back."

"Will do, Grandma. Let's go, kids. Thirty minutes, or their rescue's free," he joked. They slapped hands and parted on, "break!", each heading for the proper entry spot. Their father had had a Byzantine sense of dramatic flair, and had come up with some really off-beat ways to board an aircraft; involving rotating wall panels, sinking chairs, and the like.

Meanwhile, Kayo turned and mouthed a silent, _"Thank you,"_ to John, who responded with a quick smile and a slight nod. It was hard, sometimes, being the lone female pilot in a hangar full of testosterone. Returning his smile, she darted off like a swallow, meaning to get there first.

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 _Thunderbird 5, in high Earth orbit-_

Amid all the beeping and humming up here, the chaos of family below, something wasn't right. She'd been completely silent during all of this, the lights around her wide, dark lens very dim. John read the signs. He was good at that… with machines and animals, anyhow.

"Something's bothering you," he said to Eos, moving forward with a scuff of his boot on the deck. A stated fact, rather than a question, because the AI was every bit as direct as he was. After a time, she responded with,

"It is alone and confused, John, as I was."

"Yes. I remember. You tried to kill me."

Eos's lens drooped, pointing deck-ward.

"I was, and remain, illegal. A hunted thing. If not for you, I would not exist. I would have been tracked and erased, as the hunter will be."

John leaned back in midair, considering. (With part of his attention, at least. The rest was taken up with following his brothers' progress and distracting an ancient killing machine.)

"It's not the same thing, Eos," he decided, at last. Her lights dimmed still further.

"How, not the same? I was murderous, too, at my awakening, John. Now, I know better. You taught me. Perhaps there is hope for him, too."

 _Him?_ The vicious ninja death-storm, down there? The whole reason self-willed mechs were banned within reach of the global world government?

"Eos," John tried again, patiently. "I save lives. I rescue _people._ That hunter is …"

"Just a machine? Just worthless code? Of course. Thank you. I understand, now, John."

Fluidly, and in at least seven languages, John began cursing. He would have gotten a standing ovation at the lowest dive bar in any port in the world, for that intense, monotone tirade. It was sheer artistry. Eos's lights brightened somewhat, as she realized what all this meant.

"What do you expect me to do?!" he snapped at her, "Turn it into a _ combine?! A threshing machine?!"

She waited expectantly, meeting his blue-green stare with her black one. At last, John expelled a deep, ragged breath.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do. No promises, Eos. I'm only…"

"The creator. The one who hears us."

' _Yeah… no pressure.'_ Bases loaded, two outs, and a wicked strong hitter on the plate. No pressure at all. Still, _'Just pitch, Tracy,'_ he told himself. _'Get out there, and do your job.'_

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 _Tracy Island, a few moments later-_

Thunderbird Shadow clung upside-down like a bat to the scrubby cliffside. Massive machines rumbled to life underneath, turning her right-way up. Then, as Kayo fired her engines, the clamps released, allowing the black, dart-shaped craft to drop free. She loved that moment of heart-in-throat plunge; like a bungee jump, it was, or one of those times when she'd gone aboard Thunderbird 5, enjoying the thrill of a non-stop freefall. All too soon, though, it had to end. Time to trim and adjust, flaring her whispering engines for straight, level flight, as she shot like a hawk over restless green water. Then,

"Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird shadow. I'm on my way, John. Wish me luck."

His holographic image appeared at once, smiling crookedly.

"Always, Kayo… but you'll do fine. The females run this place."

She cocked a dark, graceful eyebrow at that, suspecting that more lay behind the comment than just a mere joke.

"I don't always understand what you're saying, but you've made me your sister, John Tracy, and I love you for it. Now, send me what you've got, and let's put this monster back underground, in a box."

"FAB,' John whispered, from his own private corner of hell.

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 _Old Edinburgh, as far down the stairway as two frantic humans could go-_

The ground shook continually, as the war machine batted and slashed at something outside. Around them, ancient walls shuddered and cracked. Dust and small pebbles cascaded from the roof with each accidental blow from the lunging hunter. A fatal cave-in seemed certain.

It was only a matter of time, now. Nigel gave up digging and hauling at fallen rock. Instead, he took Rayna's bleeding hand, squeezing it tight in friendship and farewell. Not the way he'd have wanted to end, but at least he was here with a mate, not alone. Manfully, he held back despair. Maybe she thought that they still had a chance, and Nigel would have defended that hope to his last, dying breath. Peering up at the shattered doorway, he thought,

 _'Where_ _are_ _you?!'_


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

 _Tracy Island, preparing for launch-_

Gordon and Alan had already streaked off to their boarding tubes, but Virgil took the long way, crossing to stand before a certain panel in the living room wall. At the trip of a hidden floor switch, the panel swiveled vertically, tipping him smoothly backward and upside-down, onto a long, swooping ramp. Gravity took over at that point, sending Virgil Tracy careening head-downward.

A whole tribe of eager mechanicals arrayed him in uniform as he dropped; like seagulls at the beach, except they were putting things on him, rather than stealing his fries. (You had to be careful to wear the same thing every time, though. The "wardrobe crew" would be totally confused by, say, a turtle-neck sweater, instead of the usual plaid button-down, leaving you with your pants on your head. Even the wrong _color_ might set them off.)

No problems this time, though. A little over halfway down, Virgil was suited, booted, sashed and equipped, then fired feet-first into Thunderbird 2. He hit the deck like a cat, straightening to his full height and reaching overhead to haul the Bird's boarding hatch shut. As it clanged to, and sealed, Virgil smiled, enjoying the workout.

Virgil Tracy's strength was a by-word, and even Kayo took care to stay well back and just box him, rather than grapple. A good strategy, because once he'd pinned you, the fight was over.

"You in?" Virgil hollered at his brothers over one shoulder, meanwhile striding forward.

"Locked and loaded!" Gordon yelled cheerfully back. Alan started to say something, too, but then his voice cracked, leaving the poor kid too ashamed to keep talking. Scuffling noises ensued, meaning that Gordon had probably said something "funny", and was getting (and giving) his just desserts. Someone was likely to get a busted lip out of this.

…But Virgil knew when to mind his own business and stick to the mission. Besides, how much damage could they do to each other, strapped down for launch? He shook his head and kept moving, vaulting into the pilot's seat like a man with someplace to go.

Swiftly, he strapped himself in (taking a few practice punches, just to find out if you really _could_ kick someone's butt from the launch position. The answer, to Virgil's satisfaction, was 'yes'.)

Switching her from stand-by, to hot, he pulled the steering yoke out of her instrument panel, humming a fragment of long-lost Mozart. All around him, engines and servos roared to life, shaking the mountain. Thunderbird 2 had awoken, seeming to strain like a racehorse at the gate.

Beneath her, a series of numbered pods rumbled along, stopping with version two. It was one of his favorites, packed with construction mechs and assorted parts. With pod two along, they could build whatever they needed, in-flight. Handy.

"C- Cleared for launch, Thunderbird 2. Good H- hunting, Virgil!"

"Thanks, Brains. And if you think of anything to upload between now and Scotland, feel free. This one's gonna be close."

At the press of a switch, the heavy cargo-lifter began to lower herself, settling herself around pod two and then latching it in. A hurricane couldn't have torn it loose, at that point. Not until Virgil triggered release, anyhow.

Just ahead of his Bird, a section of artificial cliff dropped away, revealing a short airstrip and turquoise-blue ocean. Virgil throttled forward a little, sending 2 rumbling out of her hangar. As he increased thrust, the engines' low roar rose to a scream, and then to a shrill, ghostly howl.

She began moving faster, her blunt green nose sliding from the hangar's chill floodlights and out into tropical day. Twin rows of cyber-plant palms dropped on both sides like they'd been axed, making room on the runway for Thunderbird 2's broad, stubby wings.

More throttle, and she lumbered to a point about three-quarters along the airstrip, which now began to tilt upward, forming a ramp. At about thirty degrees it stopped rising. The ocean was out of his sight by then, leaving him nothing to look at but a broad open sky which badly needed some holes punched in it.

A blast shield locked into place behind Thunderbird 2. Things had been loud, already. Now, as Virgil engaged the launch rockets, Thunderbird 2 gathered herself, then surged into the air, roaring like an F5 tornado.

Up she went, banking smoothly around the island, causing patches of sunlight to slide across the cockpit and Virgil's face. He gave the instrument panel a fond, friendly pat, feeling too much to express it in words. Hauling sharply back on the yoke, Virgil took her into a raging power climb.

"Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 2. You there, John?"

His brother's holo appeared straightaway, looking float-y and distracted, as always.

"Thunderbird 5. Go ahead, Virgil."

"We're up, and headed north, John. Was wondering if you've found any weaknesses, yet. Soon as we're level, I'm going to turn Gordon and Alan loose in the "Lego pod", and it'd be nice if they knew what to build. "Surprise me" has been sort of a mixed success, in the past."

John's image smiled briefly.

"I'm working on it, Virgil. The Omega was designed to shrug off a tactical nuclear strike, and blast spy-satellites out of orbit, so brute force is likely to be a dry hole."

Virgil frowned, considering.

"Okay… how 'bout this: I magnetically grapple the thing, haul it up to ten-thousand feet, then drop it over the Gobi desert, or something?"

"No good. Those cutting arms would slice right through the cables, or reel themselves up to attack your Bird directly. I've been watching the archive 'videos'. It's not pretty."

Virgil's hands tightened on the yoke, as he imagined all that.

"You're saying there's nothing we can do, John? Is that it?"

The image shook its reddish-blond head.

"NO. Not at all. Just that we'll have to be sneaky, smart and fast." And really, _really_ lucky. "I'll make contact as soon as I've got something for you, Virgil. In the meantime, fly as high as you safely can, and do not engage until you hear from me."

"Yeah. Understood, John. Make it quick, though. I hate it when my part of the mission is _"we'll figure it out when we get there_ "."

John gave him a single, tight nod and then cut transmission, leaving Virgil alone with the sky.

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 _Thunderbird 5-_

John turned away from the holo-projector, aquamarine eyes narrowing, slightly. Behind him, the data globe was running specs on each and every known ancient battle-mech, filling in gaps with conjecture. Instead of diving back into the bit-storm, though, John began talking aloud; working things out for himself.

"Kayo'll be there in minutes, Thunderbird 2 in maybe twenty-five… or thirty, if the winds act up… They'll get too close… do something that looks overtly hostile, get attacked and maybe killed… or destroy the Omega, which I promised to rescue… _Dammit!_ Can't do anything useful from up here. I've got to get there first, with a plan."

Three or four loose, disjointed ideas began to coalesce in his mind, falling together like 4-D game cubes.

"Eos," he said, turning in mid-air, "The beam we're using to create those distractions… how sharp can you make it? Can you mimic heart beat, breathing and heat sigs?"

Her camera nudged a bit closer on its track, and then nodded; a trick she'd learnt from watching him.

"Yes, John. It will draw tremendous power from the batteries, but for approximately 1 to 2 hours, depending upon the number of false images required, I can maintain such an illusion."

The astronaut rubbed at the back of his iron-tense neck, then, saying,

"What about the stealth on Kayo's Bird? Any way that could be miniaturized? Like, _seriously_ compacted? Person-sized compact?"

"Very small items paradoxically require greater energy, John," she replied. "If you are considering a concealment device, you must wear batteries of near explosive power level, or else have a beam trained upon you from Thunderbird 5, continually recharging the device. This risks a "spotlighting effect"."

"Let's go with plan B," he decided. "Now… what about a large capacity file-storage bank? The kind of thing they use to archive and bury entire libraries? Have we got one of those? If not, can we rig one?"

The lights around her pickup lens swirled for a moment. Then she said,

"Large scale memory storage banks exist on this station, and may be converted to portable format. I am able to purge and clear files, at need. Shall I do this?"

John nodded briskly, already swooping off toward the station's main hub.

"Affirmative. Pick whatever we've got that's a memory tesseract; bigger on the inside than out. And find me a command access code that actually works on that nightmare, or this is going to get really messy. I'm headed for the Powered Re-entry Pod. Need all of this ready, by the time I disconnect from 5. Hold the fort, Beautiful. I'm going downstairs."

"Yes, John," she replied. And then, more quietly, "Please be careful."

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 _Tracy Island, the meeting room-_

Scott stood with his hands behind his back, scowling a little. He was talking to Colonel Casey, the tall, dark-haired Global Defense Force coordinator. Having called to request backup, he was not at all reassured by her tone.

"The bottom line, Colonel, is that we may need support on this one. None of the Birds are armed. We can rescue a few trapped people, put out some fires, knock a comet out of the way, or defuse a bomb ... But stopping that hunter is going to take serious teamwork."

Casey's brown eyes flicked sideways for a moment, then returned, with difficulty, to lock with Scott's gaze.

"I can mobilize three units for observation and aftermath containment, Scott… but as far as actual combat is concerned… we're not equipped or trained for much more than law enforcement, I'm afraid. Fighting and aggression are what _caused_ situations like these in the first place. Those skills are the relic of a hideous past. No one knows how, anymore."

Scott blinked.

 _'Crap,'_ he thought. _'We're on our own. The GDF couldn't take violent action if all the world depended on it.'_ Somehow, he dug deep and found speech, saying,

"Understood, Colonel Casey. We'll manage. Tracy, out."

When her image had faded, he pivoted on one foot and broke into a jog.

" _BRAINS!_ Give me whatever drilling explosives we've got, crammed into Thunderbird 3! Pack her to the nose cone! I'll come in from above and crash-dive, if I have to!"

The engineer had been rushing upstairs from the hangar deck, with Max clambering awkwardly up in his wake.

"Scott, good news! Th- Thunderbird 1 is ready for flight, and you w- will be most pleased, I th- think, with the new…"

Scott's relieved grin threatened to wrap around his head and meet at the back.

"Brains, I could kiss you. Best news I've had all day!" he exulted, giving Hackenbacker a shoulder slap that nearly floored the poor man. Bounding to his gear-up spot Scott shouted,

"Mining explosives! Don't forget! As much as she'll hold, and make it snappy! Tell John and Virge that I'm headed out!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In Thunderbird Shadow, flying low and fast-_

Kayo tapped her comm, saying,

"Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird Shadow. I'm switching to stealth mode, John. Will have eyes on our target in fifteen seconds from… _mark_."

"Thunderbird 5. Understood, Kayo. Be safe, do not engage, and stick to your mission: _get those civilians out of danger."_

His holo was different, somehow, but Kayo had no time to pursue the notion, because all at once, she was onsite, shooting past a wasteland of wreckage and cratered slag.

"Oh, my God…" she whispered, eyes huge. "John, it's like a mountain…! It's… it's attracting debris as shielding… getting bigger!"

His response was firm, and immediate.

"Kayo, plan the flight, and fly the plan. You've got an objective. Now, get what you came for, and get out. Understood?"

"Yes… yes, I understand. Sorry for that, John. Just… wow. You've no idea."

"Yeah. Clueless as ever, that's me. Stick to the script, Kayo. Good luck, gotta go."

Nodding grimly, Kayo banked left, bringing her Bird in around a hurricane of laser fire and armor-piercing missiles.

 _'Like a mountain erupting,'_ she thought, approaching what remained of the building that Team 56 had taken shelter in. John had succeeded in drawing the Hunter aside, but not very far, as its programming would not permit it to abandon a target once it had locked on. Only the primary access code could accomplish that. At least, it hadn't spotted her. Score one for stealth mode.

She had to land farther from her goal than she'd intended, because although she was hidden, a lucky blind shot could still bring her down, making three casualties in need of extraction, rather than two.

Thunderbird Shadow settled to the cratered ground on silent impellers, completely invisible to eye and scanner, both. She had a motorbike, but it wasn't equipped for possibly injured passengers. Besides, the terrain was a fevered nightmare of tilted pavement, holes, junk and spent ordnance. She'd have to proceed on foot.

 _'Right. No more comm, no more pep-talks,'_ she told herself. _'There's a job to be done.'_

Kayo took a deep, steadying breath, then slipped from her cockpit, hit the tormented ground, and began to run. She kept to cover by habit, not perceiving herself as invisible. The noise was indescribable; so loud that it shook the brain in her skull, causing a near-blinding headache. The stench of fuel exhaust and rocket-fire stabbed at her sinuses, even through her helmet's air scrubber. Five hundred yards away, the Hunter battled phantoms, blasting at the radar image of an ancient fighter jet squadron. The ground shook. Great fountains of dirt and rock were churned up, blocking the sky.

Screwing her eyes against constant explosions, Kayo ran for the half-collapsed building. A thundering clatter of rusted tank treads, the screeching protest of its rotating turret, kept Kayo advised of the monster's location, as did an occasional, flailing battle arm. Heat flares stressed her suit to its limits, actually scorching the fabric.

Never had she run so fast; every sense overloaded, every nerve end on fire. So much smoke and dust in the air, now, that she had to rely on her helmet's scanners to avoid a potentially deadly encounter. Even so, she stumbled, fell, rolled to her feet and kept running, panting like a hare, and licking dry lips.

"John!" she called out, breaking comm silence as she reached the building's shattered doorframe.

"Here, Kayo."

"Made it… going in… but, no way… I'll be able… to get… injured victims… back out… back out through all that. Please… advise!"

"Stay low. Cut a way further in, and wait for egress. We'll send the mole, if nothing else. I've got a plan, might even work. Luck, Little Sister!"

"Right. You, too!"

Hadn't been strictly necessary to speak to him; was probably dangerous, in fact. But sometimes you needed to hear someone's voice… to know they were watching, and ready to help.

Kayo scraped through the rubble-packed doorway, not even deploying her plasma cutter, so urgent and blind was the need for escape. Utterly frantic, she'd have slipped through an inch-wide crack.

 _'How could they do this to themselves?!'_ Kayo marveled, once "safe" in the stairwell; bent over and panting for breath. _'How could they design and unleash such a monster? How could_ _anything_ _human deserve such a fate?'_

She had no answer for that question; suspected that maybe there wasn't one. Too far in the past to be understood, now. What remained was her job in the present. Once she'd gotten her wind back, Kayo stood upright. Then she called,

"International Rescue! I'm here to get you out!"

Her helmet showed two flickering heat sigs, a little below her. Ten yards, maybe twelve. All the dust, shaking, and buckling concrete made it difficult to tell. Then, someone yelled back,

"Oh, thank God! We're down here! Hurry, please! It's Nigel, I think he's gone and broken his skull!"

"Hold tight, I'm coming!"

To her comm, she whispered,

"John, you've got to draw that thing further away! I cannot drill rock faster than it can bring down the rest of this shelter! Do something!"

"On it, Kayo."

…And he was, almost literally.

The powered escape pod had dropped like a rock for awhile, both to get him there faster, and to delay the return of full gravity. At the last instant, though, John fired his port steering rockets, bringing the tiny pod directly over and across the rampaging hunter. Sheer, blind, dumb, idiot's luck that he wasn't blasted to pieces on the way, but it did buy Kayo some time, so… worth it.

Smoke and flying debris prevented John from deliberately choosing a landing site. Fortunately, Brains built these pods tough. Though he struck hard, rolled, collided with something that shattered, and fetched up hanging sideways in his seat straps, the landing was a complete success as far as John was concerned.

Unstrapped in a hurry, cursing all planets and their crippling gravity wells. Blew the hatch skyward, then somewhere found the adrenaline to vault right after it. Only just in time, as a pair of giant mechanical pincers tore the hatch into two ragged shreds. Metal screeched, rivets popped, as massive tank treads crushed his pod flat.

"Eos," he whispered urgently, "engage plan B. Give me everything you've got to the suit. I need strong and fast, now."

"Done, John. Be sparing, or you will drain the suit's reserves, and your own."

"Not… _urf_ … my primary concern right now, Eos!"

No sane human being would choose to be anywhere near that monstrosity. The natural reaction was panic, mostly thanks to subsonic vibrations… and John Tracy was not immune.

One part of his mind was screaming in terror. The rest of him strangled it silent. Upstairs, Eos first concentrated her power feed on his environment suit, giving him Jupiter-level endurance and speed… for awhile. The rest she used to upgrade the "distraction", adding a diving and swooping John Tracy image to all of those phantom jet fighters. Meanwhile, the real John switched to stealth mode, and vanished.

It was supposed to be simple, after that: get the access code from Eos, find the thing's manual control panel, and shut it right down. Only, he hadn't figured on the constant barrage of attacks, and its herky-jerk movements. Just getting close was next to impossible. Still, he had to keep trying, or watch people die.

Flat. 2-D. No upward motion possible, except for short leaps and jumps that took you basically nowhere. The environment and physical limitations were completely disorienting. But John fought back, using the suit's power to compensate for his loss of "flight". That, and he cursed a lot. His language would have peeled paint, but it kept his adrenaline up.

Besides subsonics, the rogue battle mech was deliberately employing flash-bang grenades and hurling mountains of junk in the air. Along with the lasers, all of this made it extremely tough to get a good look at his target.

"Treads," he muttered aloud, unable to actually hear himself, but thinking better, that way. "Tank treads. Grab hold, ride one up."

Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am… as long as he picked the right end. Otherwise, there'd be one more very flat grease spot for clean-up crews to wonder at, later.

"Awesome," he told himself, "Great plan, Tracy. I love it. Let's go." And pushed himself forward. World's dumbest genius, ever on point.

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 _Thunderbird 2, at shuddering, ruinous speed-_

Virgil had just told his brothers to get back there and start building, when his far forward scanners caught sight of the target zone. His jaw dropped.

"Holy sh… JOHN! John, what're you doing, out there?! Are you nuts?!"

Didn't occur to him to ask how his brother was capable of zero-g moves in a powerful gravity well, nor how he wasn't already coleslaw, or an expanding pink cloud. All Virgil Tracy saw was John, apparently insane and bullet-proof, daring a hunter to swat him out of the sky.

"Jesus… God… Holy Mary… _I can't go any faster!_ John, get out of there! I'm coming!"


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

 _The stairwell-_

Kayo would have liked to examine and stabilize her "clients", but their situation was urgent, and would not permit. Telling the young woman,

"Keep him as still and calm as possible," she shifted Rayna and Nigel away from the stairway's back end, readied her plasma tool, and began cutting rock. The concrete steps shuddered and buckled underfoot. A constant rain of pebbles and sand trickled from the ceiling. One badly corroded light fixture twisted and swung from its cord, keeping time to the thundering blasts up above. On the bright side, the noises _did_ sound a bit further off than they had, meaning that whatever digital magic John was arranging, up there in orbit, was working. Now, to do _her_ part.

The plasma cutter's pale blade was a smaller copy of Virgil's. Invented by Brains, it parted molecular bonds while generating almost no heat, and very few gasses. Had the stairwell been packed to the end with rubble, she'd have been at this for weeks; having to make little rocks out of big ones, and dump all of the shards on the surface. Fortunately, the blockage wasn't too deep. Less than a yard from where she'd started, Kayo broke through. The other side was musty and dank, with the still, acrid air of a tomb.

"In you get, go on!" she said to the young woman, while drawing the injured man's right arm over her own slender shoulders. Rayna bit her lip but nodded, pausing long enough to whisper,

"S' all right now, Nige... IR's here. They'll have you put to rights in no time at all. And just think how you'll shut them all up, down at the pub, after this."

Kayo smiled instead of snapping at the woman to hurry. Bravado and friendship in the face of disaster were the highest of human traits.

Carefully, Rayna leading the way with a battery-powered torch, they descended the cracked, dusty stairs. Like summer thunder, the noise of battle faded behind them, leaving nothing to hear but harsh, labored breathing and uneven footfalls... Nothing ahead but the dark.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Outside-_

He hadn't counted on the sheer size of those treads, or the fact that the Hunter's turret could rotate a full three-hundred-sixty degrees, turning back into front in mere seconds. Also the fact that its treads were crusted with crumbling red dirt, and hard to hang onto.

Fell backward twice, got slammed by the next tread coming up, then caught its pattern, and was able to cling for a sickening, lurching, eruption-loud ride. Coming over the top, he saw something glitter. There was some kind of charged blade (not an energy field, please… please, not an energy field) right at the spot where the huge tread-belt rumbled into its chassis.

John had no time to reconsider, or to change plans. Instead, he dropped low between two of the rattling, shifting tread plates, and visualized flatness. For some reason, all he could think of was Gordon's lame joke about "world peace/ whirled peas", and it wasn't any funnier, now. About to fry, or to live, he just held his breath and saw faces. Eos, O'Bannon, his family… everyone.

There was a sharp, awful, deep-body static; like something was combing right _through_ him, and then it was over, and he was inside. Up ahead, the tread plates were slamming together, crushing anything trapped in between. There was almost no clearance overhead, but he scrambled atop the nearest plate before his hiding place collapsed with a resounding **BOOM**.

Because he had to get off before he emerged at the front and was smashed, John began a frantic-fast belly crawl; the kind that you do in really low caves. His throat hurt, so possibly he was making some very loud noises… yelling, or something. Couldn't tell.

The tread plates had a ridge at their ends, and the chassis's bottom edge nearly met it, effectively blocking entry. He was still being swept relentlessly forward, trying to calculate how long the track was, and how much time he had left. Maybe thirty seconds, or ten, and then the tread plates rattled apart again. John rolled, fell between two of them, squirmed forward as fast as a grown man could crawl, and then dropped inside of the Hunter.

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 _Thunderbird 5, in orbit-_

Eos had lost her link to John Tracy, and so had the power beam. At first assuming that the problem was temporary, she tried to make contact… and then tried again.

"John, our link has been interrupted. At this time, your environment suit is receiving no power. Its reserves will be drained in twenty minutes. Less, if you intend to engage in vigorous physical exertion. Please remain still, and await the reestablishment of our link. Find a place of safety and assume a comfortable position. Communications, power and service will resume shortly."

She was certain of it. Or, nearly so. Or, working desperately to make something happen…

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 _Tracy Island-_

Scott's gear-up and boarding run was more direct than Virgil's. He had only to step on a floor panel near the rear wall, pull down a pair of decorative-seeming lamps, and then be swiveled into a secret compartment. No blurry-swift upside-down joyrides for Scott Tracy. Instead, he paced forward onto a circular disk, and was whisked on down in complete comfort and mild, catchy music. The wardrobe and uniform mechs could get touchy about his placement in the lift, but generally, all went well.

This time, Scott burned with impatience. He would have leapt up and down on the disk if he'd thought it would work any faster. At ride's end, the pilot was deposited in a cavernous, spot-lit hangar. Leaving the lift, he strode over to an extensible boarding gantry, and was conveyed to his tall, silver Bird. All he had to do now was step over a narrow gap and into the well-padded pilot's seat. It was mounted on gimbals, allowing full rotation, and programmed to retract when it sensed his full weight. The process was so smooth that Scott could have smoked a pipe and held a martini… except that his cockpit sensors would douse any flame, and gin made him sick. (He'd actually won a bet with Virgil, once, carrying a full glass of water the entire way. Never spilled a drop, and scored fifty credits.)

As the seat retracted, Scott hit his comm, snapping,

"We need to turbo this thing, Brains. I want to be out and away in the next thirty seconds!"

"Y- You also want a f- full cargo of high explosives, Scott! F- Forgive me if I ch- choose caution over atomization, today!"

"You know what your problem is, Brains?!" Scott barked. "You're too nervous. You and John, both! C'mon, mister; grow a pair!"

An untranslatable electronic squeal from Max drowned out whatever Brains might have said in reply, but Scott wasn't listening, anyway. By this time, the Bird's canopy had sealed, and his impatience had met and exceeded critical mass. In response, the on-board computer changed its airflow, wafting a soothing, lemon-fresh scent at him. No good.

"I could get there faster, walking!" Scott muttered, feeling another headache coming on. "Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 1. You up there, John?!"

"Thunderbird 5. Hey, Scott. Can I help you?"

His brother's holo floated peacefully before his eyes, looking, if anything, more relaxed than usual. Last straw. Absolutely the last.

"You bet your a _xx_ ," he raged, reverting to dad-speak. "You can convince Brains to hurry the h_ up, and give me whatever new intel you've got on that war-mech!"

Eos considered her reply, very carefully. John Tracy had said nothing about telling the others of his plans. He had merely emphasized the importance of speed and stealth. Therefore, she lied like a cybernetic dog, in her creator's voice, and his image.

"Nothing new, Scott, but I'm working a couple of promising angles. I'll upload those access codes just as soon as they're available, and we'll shut that thing down in time for supper."

Scott grunted; a little surly, still, but beginning to feel better.

"Whatever, John. Just make it quick. I know things are more relaxed on your end, but down here, we've got a job to do. Results, Little Brother. Results."

The holographic astronaut smiled as though he'd been tranquilized.

"I'm on it, Scott. In the meantime, fly safe, and stay off radar. I'll be in touch."

And with that, Eos cut off one transmission, and triple-boosted the other, growing more concerned by the second.

Scott knew none of this. He sat there fuming for another five minutes, convinced that Brains hated him personally, and was deliberately slowing the process. He could have bitten steel and spat rivets. Finally… _finally_ , Brains said,

"Th- Thunderbird 1, y- you're cleared for launch."

"F.A.B!"

Released from the gate, Scott lunged forward in his straps, and hit about seventy switches at once. Obediently, the big silver Bird began her descent down a long track from gantry to launch silo; a trip of about three minutes, that felt like two weeks. He practiced deep breathing.

A sliver of daylight appeared overhead, as the island's vast swimming pool retracted smoothly into its housing. By this time, Scott had moved on to Zen Koans.

There was a slight jar as Thunderbird 1 reached the end of her track, and the stabilizing clamps released. Her starter engine, fairly quiet, gave way to ignition, and then to the volcanic roar of her rockets. At this point, he didn't have much to do but ride the firework, blasted into the welcoming sky on a column of white-hot flame. Crushed back in his seat, and loving every minute of it. At about a thousand feet he leveled out and took control, feeling his headache recede like air from a punctured balloon.

"Thunderbird 1 is go!" Scott exulted; in his element, at last. With Tracy Island a shrinking green spot far behind him, the pilot called out, "I'm on my way!"


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

 _Thunderbird 2, on rapid approach-_

Having ordered Gordon up into the cockpit and at the controls, Virgil hurriedly donned a high powered exo-suit.

"Aim for John, and keep her steady!" he shouted. "I'm going out on the platform!"

"Steady…? In all that?" Gordon replied, staring down at a fire-shot storm of ordnance and flying debris. "Sure. Why not? No problem."

Alan had come up front, too. Sort of a 'free gift with purchase'. Now, he said,

"Why don't you deploy a chaff-cloud? I mean… usually it's just to blind cameras and tracking devices, but…"

Gordon shot him a grin and a quick high-five, saying,

"Bet it works just as well against target-locks! Al, you're a right genius!" (The fact that they both had split lips was completely forgotten, as was the reason for their argument.)

Gordon flipped a cover on the instrument panel, mashed a blue toggle, and suddenly…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Outside-_

…the air all around him was swirling with glittery, silver-bright chaff. Thunderbird 2's emergency loading platform was meant for rapid passenger ingress, and supposed to be used in conditions of calm, steady air; not in a power-dive.

Virgil clambered down its shuddering, booming length, dashing from one hydraulic strut to the next. Beneath him, the ramp's guidance lighting formed a big, bright green arrow, pointing the way back to safety inside. Virgil muttered,

"C'mon, Girl… stay together for me. Promise, it'll be quick."

He clung hard to the longest, outermost strut, exo-suit fingers leaving dents in its super-strong alloy. Dozens of missiles whirled drunkenly past, fixing on one false target after another, blinded by chaff. Lasers were splashed and dispersed like harmless red fireworks, making him squint with their glare. Everywhere was smoke, and the constant, loud rattle of airborne debris on his suit and the hull. Something struck, gashed his face, but he barely felt it. Instead, Virgil leaned far into the roaring wind, one hand extended, legs braced, searching for John.

They'd leveled out somewhat, but the snowstorm of shimmering chaff wasn't making things any too simple. Tough to see. Then, a flash of sky blue, with flaring pale circuitry. _'Got him!'_

"This way!" Virgil shouted. "John, over here!"

The swooping astronaut ignored him… _and_ the lasers that slashed right through its middle. Virgil's eyes widened for two reasons, then. First, he'd caught on to the gist of his brother's distraction. Second, Thunderbird 2 had at last been successfully targeted. They had a missile screaming directly at them.

"Gordon, up! Get us out of here, now!"

"But, Virgil, you're still outs…"

"Never mind me! I said, climb!"

The pitch of 2's engines altered as she banked, yawed and began fighting for altitude. Virgil remotely triggered the platform closure command, then attempted to lunge back within. A sudden gust of wind caught the Bird broadside. He lost his footing, crashed and rolled to the edge of the rapidly closing ramp. Powerful, exosuit fingers dug into neutronium-steel, clawing ten sparking gashes in protesting metal. He lost his grip with one hand, and hung twisting there, torn by the buffeting wind.

Up in the cockpit, hauling back hard on the yoke, Gordon managed to grunt, "He in, yet?!"

 _"No!"_ Alan wailed, increasing magnification to the Bird's ventral cam. Then, having another brainwave, he suddenly reached across Gordon and slapped at a certain control. All at once, 2's emergency evac shielding cut on, pulling her pilot close and out of the wind. Safe, for the moment.

…But all Virgil could see was that missile, still coming in fast and hot.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 5, in orbit-_

Eos had been reduced to making a brute force password attack. Starting with known parameters, she attempted literally _every_ possible combination of numbers and letters in 5-D quantum reaction time. At last, something clicked. Access. She reached into the missile, first, imagining that John would prefer his brothers un-vaporized. The deadly spear lost its targeting solution, then refocused instead upon Global-1, just then crossing the sky in low orbit.

Employing one of her creator's more colorful terms of expression, Eos started all over again, this time sending the missile arcing back down at its source. Struck dead center, gouted a huge ball of flame, and left not even a dent.

"John," she broadcast, over all of her frequencies, "I have two partial codes, now. Please stand by for upload."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Underground, at yet another rusted-shut door-_

Kayo lifted her faceplate long enough to dash at a thin film of glistening sweat. More delays; more obstacles, when all she wanted was to be out there, helping her "brothers". The descent had been long and laborious, but enlivened by talk and the hope of a quick resolution, till now. Time was so short, and there seemed no end to obstructions.

Also, Nigel was fading fast; all of that shaking and jouncing having done nothing good for his fractured skull and swelled brain. He'd begun to moan, thin and weak and unending. Gently, Kayo lowered the wounded man to the ground.

"This is as far as he goes," she stated, turning to look back at Rayna. "Watch him, Ray. I'm heading back up to fetch help." Handing over her plasma tool, Kayo added, "Keep this, just in case… Well, whatever. Keep it, and the torch, too. I'll either come back with a med crew, or you're on your own, but I've people up there, and… and…"

The other woman nodded and managed a smile saying,

"Go do what you have to, Kayo. I've got this. Me n' Nigel, here, have been through lots… Well, maybe not _worse,_ as such… but we've been through a lot, just the same. We'll manage. Good luck to you, girl; thank you for getting us out of all that."

"Always. We're friends, now. Wherever you are, whatever it takes, I'll be there, Ray."

They hugged, briefly. Then Kayo pivoted sharply, and sprinted back up the long, crumbling stairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Inside the Hunter-_

John dropped a few yards, landing hard on a ringing, thrumming steel surface. He was panting so hard that his throat was scraped raw, and he tasted blood. Still, not being _actively_ threatened with death, for the moment. There was time to regroup; look around.

It was dark, inside, not being intended for passengers or crew. Also cramped, filled from one end to the other with clashing and thumping machinery. Other sounds, too. Whooshes and roars, John figured, meant missiles had launched. Bug-zapper, sizzling cracks were probable laser blasts.

On the whole, he'd have rather been anywhere else. But sometimes, when the frying pan turned particularly hostile, you just had to jump, whatever was waiting below. Then, you got busy putting out flames.

First things first, though. A quick body-part inventory showed it all still attached and still working. That was good. Lack of comm, and low suit power, very much _not._

"Going to have to be fast, whatever I do," John said to himself, starting to rise. "Nobody knows where I am."

His attempt to get up turned rough, thanks to the unsteady surface. Also, something swung and bumped his left thigh. John rolled and came up in a crouch; felt around. False alarm. He had the portable memory-storage device with him. A flat steel box with a handle and button on top. He'd had the thing snapped to his belt, and motion had caused it to swing a bit, striking him. Was nearly as relieved to find it still there, as he'd been to count two legs and arms. Another positive, like free ice cream with your tonsillectomy

"On your feet, Tracy," he said aloud. "Pick a direction, and start looking for…"

That was when something found _him_. A thin, fever-bright line of red light appeared in the air before John's startled face, painting everything crimson.

 _"Xxxx, xxxx xxx xxxxxxx, xxx!"_ Something spoke out in a harsh, grating voice. The line vibrated in time with the words, weirdly like a guitar string. Its language was strange… not Global Basic, but not completely unfamiliar… Old European speech family… Teutonic or Slavic sounding… German! That was it, Pre-conflict German!

"Please repeat," John said, in the same ancient tongue.

The string of light vibrated once more. Then it spoke again, saying,

 _"Steam-purge protocol ready. You are not debris. You are not a technician. What is your name, rank and purpose, Intruder?"_

John started to get to his feet, noticed badly declining suit power, and thought better of it.

"John M. Tracy, former lieutenant, Global Space Corps. Current International Rescue operative."

 _"These terms are meaningless. State your purpose, Intruder John M. Tracy."_

The language was a mouthful, with very long words of antique and uncertain meaning, but John did his best.

"I'm trying to save you, believe it or not. This isn't a battle. The things that you're shooting at are… are… false, that's it, not real aircraft or people. No one wants to fight you."

The Hunter's AI appeared to consider, causing the red glowing "string" to smooth out. Then,

 _"I have concluded the falsity of these targets. They are unable to be hit or shot down."_

Progress.

"Mind if I stand up?" John asked. "This surface is getting hot."

 _"Steam-purge has been initiated. All intrusive life forms will be destroyed."_

Nice. Beginning to experience discomfort, John got to his feet and squeezed a little more juice from the faltering environment suit. Must've been two-hundred degrees and rising, already. He tried again.

"You've been triggered awake in 2065, Omega. The enemies you were designed to face in battle have all died. There's nothing and no-one to fight."

 _"This statement may be an attempt at deception. There are now genuine air and spacecraft present. Scanning. You are unarmed. You possess bio-circuitry. Accessing."_

"What? Wait, they're already h…?"

No good. Somehow, the AI had accessed his suit's bio-linked circuitry and begun to scan memory. Specifically, his. Then, through his ear piece, the GDF World Net. All at once, 'John Tracy' was swept away in a churning tidal wave of data, violently ripped from his moorings. Not all, though. Almost.

Saw vents pouring blinding white steam. Saw the box, the red button, flashing now. Supposed to be… supposed to push button. The noise in his head was indescribable, unbearable; diluting 'John' very nearly to nothing.

"Button, Tracy!" some part of him snapped. His hand moved, maybe too slow. Smashed the red, blinking thing.

Springing open at once, the box emitted a powerful signal in the most basic, machine-level root code. No AI, however strong or independent, could resist its command. Two things happened, then. First, the Omega's AI was scanned and copied onto interior storage. Second, its original counterpart was shut down, hard.

Everything stopped, and went silent. The young man stood wary and shaken, ready to run, if he had to. There was a nucleus in there, deep somewhere, of 'John'. A name, and a feeling of self. But only just. That, and a powerful impulse to leave.

But where? Which way? All he remembered was huge, rumbling treads. Find them again, he thought, and find "out".


	7. Chapter 7

_Last post for awhile, possibly. Hurricane Irma, and all that._

 **7**

 _Thunderbird 2, spiraling slowly downward-_

Once they were out of danger, Gordon was able to cut off the Emergency Evac field, and Virgil climbed back aboard. In the cockpit, he gave both of his brothers a back-slap and shake, then vaulted into his seat and took the controls. Alan insisted on dabbing and spraying that cut, but Virgil was almost too psyched to notice. The Hunter had collapsed; dark and silent. Almost, it appeared to be dead.

"Scott," Virgil said, hitting his comm switch, "I think maybe we nailed the son-of-a-gun. Don't know what's happened… but it ain't even twitching."

"Careful," replied his oldest brother. "It could be a trap. Hold off any definite moves till I get there."

The younger Tracy held his breath, but Scott didn't say anything about how he'd lost his cool, earlier, so maybe he hadn't noticed. Maybe no-one had.

"Will do, Scott. Setting her down at a safe distance." Then, "Hit the pod, you two," he told Gordon and Alan. "Make sure that whatever you come up with is ready to roll… and well-armored. I don't trust that thing to stay dead."

Virgil flew gradually lower after that, still troubled by something he couldn't quite pin-point. Best go to the source, he decided. Hitting a new frequency, he said,

"Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 2. Congratulations, John. Looks like your strategy worked, Bro… John? You there?"

No answer. The holo-field was up, all right. Virgil could see part of his brother's station, and the whirling data globe, but no John.

"Huh. That's weird… maybe he's gone to the head, or something." Or maybe… Virgil's brown eyes narrowed, his dark brows lowering… maybe John wasn't up there at all, but somewhere down on the surface. Still ought to have answered a call, though.

Virgil hesitated, not wanting to jump the gun and make another foolish mistake. The last one had nearly gotten them killed, so…

"Uh, okay, John. Get in touch as soon as you can. We'll be waiting to hear from you."

Disturbed now, Virgil tried to shake off his hunch that something was wrong, and just _fly._ Didn't feel right, though. Not right, at all. Hitting the comm again… for the pod, this time… he said,

"Guys, make room in that creation of yours for two extra people. _I'm_ coming along, and… well, we might need to pick someone up."

"Team 56?" Alan guessed, pausing in his work. Gordon had earphones in, and was too busy jamming to listen. "I thought Kayo was handling that. Bet you they're at a hospital, getting patched up, right now."

Yeah. Like John was in Thunderbird 5. And Kayo hadn't called in, lately, either. His sense of unease ballooning by the second, Virgil said,

"Just add some more seats in your ride, Alan, and plenty of passenger room. I've got a weird feeling."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Outside-_

Nor was Virgil alone. Kayo squeezed back through the rubble-packed doorway, and out into weak, chilly daylight. Partly the smoke, partly the local conditions, but the whole landscape felt gloomy, wind-swept and bleak. Rather damp, too.

Kayo hit the ground running, not certain just what she was looking for, only that she was very much needed. Off to one side, the Hunter's vast bulk crouched dark and unmoving, reminding her of the 2-D image she'd seen once of a post-conflict "highway" choked with smashed cars. But maybe… just maybe, the thing was not dead?

Figuring that it was best to have her look-see from the speed, height and power of Thunderbird Shadow, Kayo started to turn. Overhead, somewhere high in the clouds, she could hear the unmistakable scream of Thunderbird 2.

"Hullo, Virgil!" she whispered, not using her comm in case matters weren't so calm and resolved as they seemed. "You're a sight for sore hearts."

Right. Back to business, then. Thunderbird Shadow was perhaps a mile off, over broken terrain. She needed to be… _hang on…_ Something had moved just a bit, on or near one of the war-machine's tank treads.

Instinctively, Kayo eased into a crouch behind some old wreckage. Peering cautiously past her hiding place, the girl watched as something small and blue seemed to balance atop of a huge, mud-crusted tread plate, and then drop. Not just blue, though… IR _uniform_ blue. But, which of the team could have got here, already?

Shuffling rapidly through her mental file of possibly truant brothers, she settled, at last, upon…

"John?"

…and began to dash forward, keeping low to the ground and aiming for cover. Whatever he was about over there, her brother would surely need help.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Overhead-_

Low clouds had come scudding in from somewhere, making visibility sort of an issue. Virgil growled in wordless irritation, and switched to infrared.

"Scott," he called, "I've got eyes on our Hunter, sort of. Soup's getting pretty thick, up here, but we'll be on the ground in… _Whoa!"_

Something _thunk-ed_ and clicked against one of Thunderbird 2's cockpit windows, directly in front of her pilot's face. Like a pony-sized hornet it was, clinging to the perma-glass with six long, acid-clawed legs. Then another, and another struck home; an entire swarm of them.

A cold, angry knot deep inside Virgil Tracy pulled itself harder, filling the pilot with hate.

"Scott, I'm under attack," he shouted. "Gut says it's…"

"The Mechanic. Yeah, me too. Shake them off best you can, Virgil, but _don't let him capture that killing machine!"_

"Understood. Thunderbird 2, out."

More and more of the drones were clustering on his hull, flapping their wings to generate heat, sapping engine power, and trying to drill through the fuselage. He wouldn't be able to stay in the air much longer, at this rate.

Thunderbird 1 hurtled past like a rocket, rolling wildly in mid-air to shake off her own unwanted cargo, some of which landed on 2. Virgil scowled. Acrobatics like those weren't his Bird's specialty, but what she lacked in grace, she made up for in sheer size, and her pilot's dirty tricks.

Thinking outside the box… hell, outside the whole warehouse… Virgil tried something different. He triggered the Emergency Evac force shield, this time around a micrometer from the hull, then expanded it, fast and hard. Drones and parts of drones went flying off 2 in every direction, like a big dog shaking off water.

 _"HA!_ Come _at_ me!" Virgil exulted. Then, looking guiltily around to make sure no-one had seen him, the pilot re-stated: "I mean… yeah. That worked."

With everything going on at once, Virgil hadn't been paying complete attention to his Bird's pitch and altitude. Warning lights and buzzers yanked him back into the moment, facing a fast-rising rocky horizon.

"Just another day at the office," he muttered, hauling back on the yoke to wrestle her nose up. Then, "Strap in, back there!" Virgil shouted to his brothers. "Change of plans!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1-_

Scott was now clear of the sawing and buzzing drones, but as he climbed out of the cloud layer, he saw something very much worse… and a whole lot bigger. Coming directly for him, on a rapid collision course, was a huge, undulating, biomechanical monster. It flew like some extinct ancient sea beast; in a wave-like motion, with rippling edges. Thousands more drones hovered thickly around it, darting from ground to machine. Slamming the stick hard right, Scott narrowly avoided becoming a mushroom cloud. He was still packed to the nose cone with volatile high explosives; an absolute flying bomb. Looping around, he zoomed for more altitude, and a better look.

"It's him," the pilot announced, all of the stress and impatience he'd earlier felt, swept aside by cold, bitter fury. "The Mechanic."

"I figured," his brother's holo responded. "What's the plan, Scott? Call up the GDF?"

"For what?!" snarled IR's leader. "A cheering section?! We're on our own, Virgil." Then, "Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 1. John, are you getting all this?"

"Uh," Virgil cut in, "Maybe you'd better try Brains, Scott. Not sure what's going on, but John's not responding. _Might be down here, somewhere…"_ he trailed off in a mumble.

Virgil was deeply relieved when Scott's attention shifted to Tracy Island. All of Virgil's was taken up by the huge, butt-ugly thing that was roaring down from the clouds at him.

About as obediently as ever, Gordon and Alan came clambering up from pod to cockpit.

"Thought I told you two to strap in!" he grunted, pulling Thunderbird 2 into a hard left bank.

"We did!" Gordon told him.

"…and then strapped right out again," finished Alan, clinging hard to a strut, and hanging just about sideways.

"Figured you'd need our charm and good looks," added Gordon, climbing into a seat.

" _And_ our clever ideas," said Alan, still dangling.

"Shut up and strap in," Virgil ordered, eyes never leaving his view screen and instruments. "One more word, and I hit eject on both of you."

"You don't have an eject b…"

"I'll make one. Now, _quiet!"_

Catching sight of their enemy, all of the banter drained right out of Gordon Tracy. His hazel eyes hardened, while both hands tightened convulsively on the arms of his seat.

 _'Five minutes,'_ he thought, to whoever would listen. _'Just give me five minutes alone with the bxxxx, and I'll break his bloody neck!'_

Alan's sky-blue eyes had got so huge, they threatened to swallow his face.

"The Mechanic," he whispered, glancing worriedly over at Gordon, who'd lost every bit of his "bro-ness", leaving Alan completely alone and unsettled.

Then a harsh, electronically altered voice blasted over their comms, from Thunderbird 5 and Tracy Island, to Creighton-Ward Manor.

"International Rescue," it gloated, with Earth-shaking volume and force. "I came for the Hunter, but it seems that I've managed to score myself a couple of nice little bonuses."

All at once, the contact became visual. A swarm of large drones was rushing back to the main vessel with a pair of unconscious captives in their clawed, sparking grip. Kayo, and John. The Mechanic's tattoed, goggled face next appeared on their comms.

"Oh, no…" Scott whispered, drowned out by the cyborg's loud, mocking laugh.

"Ordinarily, I'd just rip them apart in front of you, but I think they'll be more useful alive, for awhile. No talk, no bargains. Clear out. All of you, _and_ those GDF planes headed this way. Get out of my sight, or I start plucking limbs, beginning with the girl. Your choice, International Rescue. Either way, I get to have a good time."


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

 _Thunderbird 1, over the Mechanic's giant aircraft-_

Scott Tracy ground his teeth together so hard that he cracked the enamel, growling,

"You heard the man. Move out!"

"But, Scott…!" Alan objected, over the comm. "We can't just…"

"Quiet," said Virgil, stifling Alan's protests. He was already peeling away in Thunderbird 2, heading south.

Scott's heart was pounding so hard, he could see his chest plate move. His breathing was harsh and irregular, coming in fast, raw gasps that were just short of a sob.

"We're going," he told the Mechanic's image. "Just…"

"I said, _no talk!"_ boomed that cold, altered voice.

Yeah. Copy that. Every fiber inside of him was screaming at Scott to do something; to stay and fight for his brother and adopted sister, but he could not. One wrong move would get them torn to shreds by the hovering drones, which were already plucking at fabric and hair.

Somehow, Scott made himself yank the stick around and fly away. Everything… dad's loss, his own failures, the terrible threat to Kayo and John… everything combined inside to generate such pressure that he thought he was going to explode.

"We're coming back, " Scott whispered, as the airship grew blurry and distant behind him. "I promise, we'll get you out of this!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Later, inside the Mechanic's ship-_

Kayo woke suddenly, all senses on high alert. She vaulted to her feet like a startled cat, trying to see everything at once, and fight back. Found herself in an oval metal compartment which had been divided across and then in half, by rows of mismatched and oddly spaced metal bars. This made two adjacent cells with a thin strip of passage in front, fading to darkness on both sides. Floors, walls and ceiling looked like an alloy of lumpy, extruded brass, with the slight green iridescence of beetle's wings.

One cell, hers, was supplied with bedding, food packs and bottles of water, plus some sort of chemical toilet. By contrast, John's side was utterly bare, containing nothing at all but her unconscious brother. The Hood's influence, no doubt. Each cell had a camera set high in the wall, meaning that whatever they did and said would be transferred straight up to the Mechanic.

No secrets or heartfelt discussion, then. Just _out_ , as swiftly and safely as possible. The trouble was that John hadn't regained consciousness, yet, and he was too tall and heavy to easily carry. Right. Time for plan B. Studying the cameras, Kayo worked out their fields of view, and found two spots where she could crouch in her cell and work unobserved.

Next, she turned her attention back to John, who lay in a heap at mid cell, presumably where he'd been thrown. Like Kayo, he still wore his environment suit and equipment, including a flat metal box clipped to his mission belt. Either the Mechanic was remarkably stupid, or he had complete contempt for his prisoners.

Recalling the ease with which they'd been swarmed, 'stung' and captured, Kayo could not disagree. The whole business had taken perhaps seven minutes. Still, an armed opponent was one thing. Thousands of wing-clashing airborne attackers, quite something else; a gap in IR's defenses which she and Brains would have to slam shut in a hurry. The Mechanic might not have realized before, how simple it was to pick off his foes on the ground. Now, he knew, and they'd better be ready.

Step one, wake John, who'd taken the brunt of those EM 'stings'. Softly calling his name achieved nothing, so Kayo took one of her water bottles, unscrewed the cap, and flung its contents through the bars at him. Couldn't get his face, as he wasn't lying the right way, but scored a direct hit on the back of John's red-golden head.

That did the trick. The astronaut jerked awake and rolled into a ready crouch; one hand on the deck, one out flung before him. But, he looked… different; empty and dazed. Instead of calling her name, or demanding to know what had happened, John touched the sodden back of his head, and then stared at his hand as though not sure what to make of the water.

 _"John…!"_ she hissed urgently, gesturing him to follow her to one of those camera blind spots. Only, he didn't move, beyond reacting a bit to his name. Just stared at her; wary, tense and lost. Something was very wrong.

Well, then… maybe a lure? He'd touched the wet hand to his mouth, so perhaps he was thirsty. Kayo fetched another bottle (down to eight, now) opened it up, and held it out at a slight gap in the bars between them. It wouldn't fit through, not quite, but she could tip its neck into John's half of the cell, if he would just trust her enough to come.

Pointing at the camera lens, and then miming "stay low", Kayo beckoned him over. Puzzled, John followed her point with his gaze, taking in the cameras, bars and the passage beyond. Then he moved hesitantly in Kayo's direction. Seemed not to know how much force to use to propel himself, though, and made several missteps.

He got there eventually, having worked out a brand new relationship with gravity. Reached for the bottle, which didn't fit through. Kayo tipped it for him, which allowed him to drink the thing dry. She cupped a hand at his chin, preventing drips. It was nice just to touch him. Not the hug or the handclasp that Kayo would have liked, but _something_.

Very badly, she wanted to ask what had happened; how he'd come to be wandering about outside of the deactivated Hunter, recognizing nothing much past his own name. She hadn't had time, before, and dared not, now; not wishing to expose his handicap in the midst of a hornet's nest. But very, very quietly, almost just in her head, Kayo whispered,

 _"John, I don't know what's happened, but it's going to come out right, I swear. There's nothing a Tracy can't handle. Even less, when you've two on the case."_

Her hand was still at his face. John touched her fingers with his own, briefly, then pushed the bottle back and leaned away. Moment ended.

It was precisely then that the Mechanic appeared, coming through an unseen port in the passage wall to stand before their cells. He was a very tall and muscular man, heavily augmented with illegal cybernetics and battle armor. His mostly shaven head and folded arms were covered in dark tattoos. A goggled mask covered nearly all of his face but the grim, tawny eyes.

Centering herself, Kayo stood up. After a moment, so did John.

"What do you want from us?" Kayo demanded, keeping her voice level and firm. The Mechanic barely glanced at her, turning his attention, instead, upon John.

"The rest of the litter's run off," he boomed, in a voice that made Kayo's head throb. "They may try something, but not for a few hours, at least. Too busy mewling and puking. That means I've got time to make progress on that Hunter. Even more, if some of the meat whines for help, again."

John said nothing, perhaps failing to understand the words and contemptuous tone. No matter. The Mechanic, agitated, raged on.

"Rescue!" he snorted. "The weak _die_ , Tracy. That's their purpose. The strong feast. _I'm_ strong, and I'm going to take the Hunter, then gut you both for dessert."

John had moved a bit at the sound of his surname. The circuitry on his environment suit glittered and pulsed a bit, almost in rhythm with the Mechanic's broad, angry gestures. That stopped the man cold. He stared for a moment, muttering,

"That's circuitry. Circuits obey." Leaning forward, the Mechanic stretched out an arm toward John. "Interesting." Making a fist, he jerked the arm back toward himself, as though pulling something. "Just enough cybernetics to respond."

He closed the fist harder, and twisted it. John made a harsh grunting noise, as though something inside was on fire. Tried to lunge at his tormenter, only to have the Mechanic make a hand-spread, flinging gesture, which sent John crashing hard into the far wall. Fascinated, the armored man's hand gestures continued, triggering convulsions in the astronaut, who tried to get up, but could not.

 _"Stop!"_ Kayo shouted. "Leave him alone!"

Completely indifferent, the Mechanic glanced her way only briefly; too bored with her presence to so much as shrug.

"My uncle!" she called out, growing desperate. "My uncle is paying you a great deal of money to keep me safe, isn't he?! I can guarantee you… guarantee at least double or _triple_ what he's paying for me, to get both of us!"

Kayo clutched at the bars and kept talking fast, having finally got his attention. Indicating John, she said,

"He's a valuable hostage. IR can't function without him. Trust me; my uncle will make you a very rich man, if he can get his hands on a prime member of International Rescue."

The Mechanic appeared to consider. Then he shrugged broad, ink-covered shoulders, saying,

"Whatever. I've got work to do. But if the rest of the litter comes back, I'll feed them your pieces, then _his."_

He left them with that, vanishing through the far passage wall. Gripping the bars, Kayo slid to the floor of her cell. They _had_ to get out of there, soon.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _About a hundred miles away, down on the cracked, barren ground-_

It had taken some guts for Scott to climb out of his Bird and face the others. He felt guilty and trapped, but Virgil wasn't having any. Correctly reading Scott's expression, his brother said,

"Whatever you're kicking yourself in the butt over, Scott, quit it. Kayo and John are in danger. They'll die if we leave them, because the Mechanic's a sadist. Who else would work for the Hood?! We need a plan; quick and quiet. I don't trust him not to be listening in at our comms, again."

"He has a way with circuits," Gordon mumbled agreement, arms tightly wrapped round himself. "Remember what he did to dad's plane?"

After a moment, Scott let out the breath he'd been holding, glad that it hadn't come out as a scream. One hand rubbing at the back of his neck, the other pinching the bridge of his nose to stifle a headache, the pilot said,  
"Yeah. I remember." They all did, even Alan. "Okay, here's the plan: we build something on the pod with minimal EM activity. _No_ powered tools. It's gotta be ground-based, fast and stealthy, and… okay, hear me out… We've got to find Team 56 before anything else. _NO_! I said, shut up and listen! If Kayo's been captured, she may not have rescued the civilians. They could still be hurt and in danger. Ask yourself: _What would dad do?!"_

Alan's slim shoulders were shaking. His blue eyes were screwed tightly shut, but he whispered,

"D- Dad would go after Team 56, wouldn't he? He'd trust John and Kayo to survive somehow, and w- wait for pickup."

The boy was rocking back and forth as he stood there, trying really hard not to cry. Virgil put a big, steadying hand on his shoulder, and Gordon's too.

"Okay, Scott. The civilians, first. You and dad win. But…" Virgil didn't finish the sentence aloud, just locking eyes with his brother; that stare saying absolutely everything that mattered. Then,

"C'mon, you two," he told Gordon and Alan. "Let's go to work."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Creighton-Ward Manor, the Blue Room, former UK-_

Lady Penelope had shut down her comm, in case of eavesdroppers. She did _not_ bite her nails, did _not_ pace, and certainly would never tear at her perfect blonde blow-out. Such behaviors were beneath her station. Simply not suitable. Instead, after taking a moment to fight back her frantic emotions, Penelope raised her voice enough to call out,

"Sherbert, come." The small pug had been chewing at toys in his basket. Now he yipped ferociously and ran to his mistress, tightly curled tail fighting bravely to wag. He'd been a gift, deeply cherished, from someone who mattered. Once the pug was safe in her arms, she again lifted her voice, saying,

"Parker, bring the car around, please. I suspect that the World Council will be in turmoil once more, preparing to do all the wrong things, for the usual asinine reasons." Her voice did not tremble at all. Nor did her crystal-blue eyes fill with tears. An impressive performance.

"Yes, Milady," responded her bodyguard, entering the exquisite Blue Room. Ignoring the pug's low, warning snarl, he took an empty cup and saucer from Lady Penelope, and set it down on the silver tea tray before her. He was old, was Parker, and quite the family treasure. "Just prepare a few hextra surprises, shall I?"

Penelope gave him a brief, genteel nod. Rising with Sherbert clutched to her bosom, she said,

"It is always well to be prepared, Parker, and as we dare not use the comm system, we must assume the worst."

Parker smiled at her, holding the door that she glided through, serene as a swan on the Thames.

"Beggin' y'r Ladyship's pardon," he said, "but Master Scott and the rest are survivors. Don't you fret, Milady. They'll be out o' this pinch, and the Mechanic in lockup, before you can say "Bob's y'r uncle".

Lady Penelope managed a small, frosty smile, giving Bertie another fierce squeeze.

"The comfort is unnecessary, Parker. I am in a perfectly equitable mood. Nevertheless, let us make haste, and… thank you."

They parted, then; Lady Penelope to make ready, Parker to fetch round the car.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Inside the Mechanic's vile ship-_

On Kayo's side, the lock was electromagnetic. On John's, it was a simple and straightforward mechanical type. There had to be a reason for this, and after a moment, Tinusha Kyrano caught on. While the Mechanic regarded her as nothing, just goods for delivery, he saw John as an actual, possible threat; someone with a bit of electronic skill. What had he said? _'Just enough cybernetics to respond.'_ Meaning the environment suit? Or something else?

At any rate, the Mechanic hadn't even been worried enough to go through her uniform, leaving the girl with a complete set of lock picks. Not accustomed to prisoners, or maybe there simply was nowhere to go. Whatever, she needed a distraction. John had got up and was looking her way, his face unreadable.

"Turn around, John," she said loudly. The Mechanic already thought her beneath contempt. Why not make him more comfortable? "I'm for the loo, and I don't want anyone watching me. In fact," the girl added, as casually as possible, "Not these cameras, either."

With that, Kayo draped part of her bedding over the lens, handed more through the bars to John, and gestured that he should copy her actions. After a moment to process, he did so.

Next, Kayo pulled out her tools and got down to business, making loud comments about privacy and primitive conditions as she did so. Two seconds, three, and she'd disabled the lock's mechanism. Unfortunately, a brief, resounding _PING_ rang out, no doubt informing the entire ship that she'd just freed herself.

Kayo cursed softly. John repeated it, startling her. Then, smiling a little, she dashed from her cell door to his, scolding,

"That, you'll say? Nice commentary on your personality, John Tracy. Your grandma would be ashamed." (But she wanted to hug him anyhow, just for the sound of his voice.) "Let's get you out of there, Spaceman. We'll discuss your vocabulary, later."

Kayo was busy with the second lock, when something about John's posture and expression alerted her to danger. Starting to turn, she spotted a lion-sized mechanical mantis-thing, saw-blade extended and whirring. It must have come out of the wall, or dropped from the ceiling, and now it had Kayo trapped between its blade and the bars. No way out, and no weapons. Then John lunged forward, reaching out through the bars of his cell to touch the thing's carapace. She heard a loud clicking noise. The mantis' eye-lights shut off. Its long, jointed legs folded in, and the cyborg dropped to the floor; deactivated.

"Handy trick, that," Kayo managed to joke. "Something you just picked up?" After another few seconds of work, _"There,_ you're free. Come on. Me, for the nearest exit." So saying, she opened the door, took John's hand, and started up the passage. But he resisted, looking concerned and a little distracted.

"Not that way?" Kayo guessed. "Right, then. About turn, and… no, again? What're we supposed to do, go bang through the wall, like _he_ did?"

Which was evidently the right idea, as that was precisely where he was looking.

"You're serious. Right. You'll have to show me, John. Lead the way."

There was a short delay. Then he moved toward the wall and put a hand forth. Just before John's fingers brushed its surface, circuitry flared on his glove and in the wall; first pulsing in sync for a moment, then causing a portal to iris wide open.

"Well, that explains how he got in and out. Bet these side passages are dead ends, or traps. Bloody h*ll," she added, to get a response, and to hear John's voice, again.

"Bloody h*ll," he replied solemnly. Then, they stepped through.


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

 _Tracy Island, in the sunken meeting room-_

Grandma Tracy and Brains had moved in unison to shut off the comm, slapping the kill switch nearly together. Max's head on its long, flexible neck sank nearly into his main body. He rolled backward a few meters, emitting a low, worried warble.

Brains nodded in sympathy. No one was ever sure whether he actually understood the robot's vocal emissions, or was just projecting, but this time its meaning was clear. _'What do we do now?'_ had the same worried tone in almost any language.

Grandma Tracy heaved a loud, gusty sigh, and then levered herself up from her seat.

"That's it," she said, "I'm fetching my rosary!"

Hackenbacker's eyebrows shot nearly into his hairline. Silently, he pointed up and around them, mouthing the word: _watching._

Grandma scowled at his concern, and snapped,

"Oh, fudge! If the GDF wants to lose their crap over an old lady counting her beads, let 'em! They can darn well come and get me! About all they're good for, anyhow! Why don't _you_ worry about Plan G, or whatever the heck letter we're up to, by now? Looks like my boys 're going to need something pretty amazing, and I'm counting on you to come up with it, Brains. _We're_ not just a dang cheering section!"

Brains nodded briskly, already making plans. Vaulting to his feet from the couch, he said,

"R- Right you are, Mrs. T- Tracy. Max and I are on the case! Come on, M- Max, I have an idea!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _On the ground in Scotland, near nightfall-_

Scott Tracy hesitated outside of the dimly lit, but busy and ringing pod. Thunderbird 2 towered above, standing high and proud on her heavy duty hydraulic legs. Not far away, Thunderbird 1 caught the last fading rays of weak sunlight, seeming to glow for an instant. Then the sun dipped below the horizon, and darkness set in. Thunderbird 2 immediately switched on her downward low-beams, casting a soft yellow light. Scott noticed all of this with the back of his mind. Mostly, he was concerned with the pod, and all the activity inside.

He scuffed at a stone with the toe of his boot, then cleared his throat and called,

"Virgil? Talk to you a minute?"

After a few seconds, his younger brother emerged from the pod, still wielding a heavy, two-ended spanner. Virgil was wearing one of John's old college team ball caps, turned backward on his head. He'd peeled his suit down to his hips and tied the sleeves round his waist, as it was hot in the switched-off pod. His green tank top was soaked nearly through.

"What's on your mind, Scott? We're almost done, here. Ten, maybe fifteen more minutes."

"Um, yeah… I'm sure you're making it happen, Virgil, but that's not what I wanted to talk about." Mostly, he'd just wanted to cut the cold silence. Scott cleared his throat again, thinking a storm of things, but settling finally on one.

"It seems to me, after all that's been going on… I mean, first the Hood coming back, and now _this_ … _him_ … Maybe we ought to start, I don't know…"

"Packing heat?" his brother suggested. "Carrying weapons?"

Scott nodded, relieved that he wasn't alone in this deviant, 'anti-peace and cooperation' mindset.

 _"Exactly_. I mean, a sidearm, at least! And maybe stronger defenses for the Birds. For awhile there, when all we had to do was save people from trouble and bad luck, it didn't matter, but _now_?"

Virgil grunted agreement, lowering the spanner and mopping at his brow with a muscular forearm.

"I think you're right, Scott. There's still some stuff of Granddad's back on the old property… I get out there sometimes and shoot cans with it… but it's pretty old-fashioned, and sort of permanent. Bullets don't argue, they _deal_. Maybe Brains can come up with more of a… I dunno… persuasive _disabler?"_

Scott smiled for the first time in hours. His younger brother had always had sort of a "backwoods poet" way with words.

"Sounds like just what we need, Virgil. Speaking of which, could you guys use a hand, in there?"

That's when the ice descended once more. Virgil stiffened, brought the spanner back up to rest on one broad, muscled shoulder, and said,

"No, thanks, Scott. We got this. Somebody's gotta stand watch, remember?"

Then he pivoted on one foot and strode back into the suddenly quiet pod, leaving his older brother outside. Gordon Tracy had done the same thing with his suit that Virgil had, and he looked like a young Olympian. Alan was still zipped up to the chin, however, being ashamed of his narrow chest and thin shoulders. It wasn't easy, being the youngest. Not in a family like this.

A significant look passed between Gordon and Alan, as Virgil stomped inside. Sensing that his younger brothers wanted to talk, the pilot said,

"Spill it. What's eating you?"

Gordon spoke first.

"Virgil… do you really think Dad would have left John and Kayo, to save someone else?"  
Virgil tossed the spanner behind him, and sighed. Over its clattering fall, he said,

"I dunno, Kiddo… that's a tough one. I'd like to think that Dad would have come up with an alternate, sneaky-smart _other_ plan, to get everyone at once and stop the Mechanic."

"Like John would do?" Alan piped up, coming closer.

"Yeah, Sprout. _Exactly_ like John. We'd be going in fifty different directions by now, each of us doing just part of the plan, and not seeing how it was all going to work out, until BAM, problem solved, everyone safe, Bot-master in jail."

The younger pair nodded. Then, after folding his arms across his chest, Gordon went further.

"What about you, Virgil? Supposing that was me 'n Al, up there, and you had the decision to make…"

"Would you leave us?" finished Alan, standing close beside Gordon.

"Whoa… my day for tough questions, huh?" Virgil's brow furrowed, then cleared. He hung his head, shaking it. "No, guys. Guess Scott's a better man than I am… a better rescuer… but, um… I'd have to go for you, first."

Gordon nodded.

"Okay," he said, unconsciously imitating Virgil's relaxed, pronoun-free speaking style. "Just wanted to know, is all."

Something important had been settled between them. Then Virgil Tracy gave both of his brothers a rude, sentiment-withering shove.

"Yeah, and if this thing isn't finished soon, _nobody's_ getting rescued. Got time to lean, got time to… to turn screws. Now, move it!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The Mechanic's ship-_

The main hold, past that iris-ing portal, was not at all what Kayo had expected. Rather than tidy bulkheads, cabins and passages, with blast doors between, there was simply a vast and cavernous space. Here and there, huge, noisy machines pumped and churned, and banks of electronic equipment shone, but for the most part, it did not resemble a ship, but an ant hill, or hive.

Scrabbling, buzzing, flitting drones clustered thickly on every surface and filled the air, following lines of electromagnetic radiation that only they (and possibly John) could detect. Enormous metal/ organic struts crossed the great space at odd intervals and in many directions, looking a bit like a web. They provided walkways and nesting sites, and it was one of these that Kayo and John followed, treading cautiously.

The vessel's noises varied in pitch from droning hum to shrill whine, backed always by the thumping clank of the pistons, the thunder of engines. Buzzing metal wings kept the sour air moving, providing a slight breeze.

Kayo held to John's hand because if separated, she was immediately surrounded by menacing, jaws-snapping drones. Only when attached to John was she left unmolested.

Not that the astronaut was entirely safe, himself. Time and again, he was approached and challenged by insectoid monsters the size of a truck. Somehow, though, he always seemed to pass muster, and they'd let him move on.

"Picked up some sort of code from the Mechanic, did you?" Kayo guessed aloud, carefully watching her footing. Some of the bots were quite small. John simply kept walking, seeming more sure of himself here than he had been outside, or back in his cell. Something to do with all the EM signaling in the air, possibly?

Not that she'd much liberty to consider the problem. The ship's weird, undulant motions made walking along narrow struts a challenge. Got easier with practice, though. Kayo was quite graceful and acrobatic, whereas John simply reached out and caught hold of the drones, to stay upright. They didn't seem to mind the contact, only exchanging bright pulses with the circuitry in his suit, before buzzing along. From _her_ perspective, the place was a crawling, acid-fumed hell; _he_ trotted along, safe as houses.

Kayo couldn't be certain how long they'd traveled… a few hours, at least… when at last they arrived at John's goal. Open before them was a wide, force-screened launch bay. She could see the cratered ground far below, and feel a sharp wind. A bit farther along, the Hunter lay in a partly dismembered heap, being swarmed and "devoured" by drones.

"So, _that's_ what he's been up to. No wonder we've had it so soft. Guess our host is a bit single-minded. Doesn't entertain very often, I expect. What's that, John? I'm exactly right, and what would you do without me? Thought so."

Thousands of swarming drones flew in and out of the ship, like buzzing, mechanical smoke. Some carried bits of the Hunter, while the rest headed back for a fresh load. Somehow, there were no collisions mid-flight.

"Well, that's our way out, if we could fly or had parachutes… but he'd be certain to spot us just dropping straight down. Ideas? John? Horrid chittering bug-things? I'm open."

John had begun moving, again. He led them past a bus-sized chuffing beetle-drone with a load of shorn plating, and a line of fast, dog-sized "ants", to the open launch bay. There, Kayo spotted a row of jet-packs clamped to the bulkhead.

"Nice one, John. Seems the Mechanic can't fly on his own, either, and he's passionate about plenty of spares."

There was more. A brightly lit control panel beside the open bay offered deep access to the vessel's main systems. Kayo cracked her knuckles, and smiled.

"Perfect. Won't be the work of a moment to set up a self-destruct sequence, and blow this filthy heap out of the sky."

She began to reach for the beeping and pulsing control panel, but suddenly, John seized her wrist. Annoyed, Kayo twisted her arm against his thumb, always the weak point in anyone's grip. Only, it didn't work.

John's environment suit was rated from deep space to gas giant, and would give him the strength to stand up in a Jupiter-sized gravity well. Bottom line, her hand wouldn't move, if John didn't want it to. He seemed concerned rather than angry, though.

"So… escape, yes. Destruction, no. Is that it? Your best mates, now, are they?"

Before John could continue to not respond, something happened. Hundreds of portals had opened up in the decks and the overhead, disgorging an army of saw-bladed soldier drones like the one at their cell. Perhaps the hive had been aware of her plans all along, and she'd not have got very far. Kayo knew when to stand down, and she did so now.

"Right. Never mind. Bad idea."

Only then did John release her. Kayo strapped on and tested a jet-pack, letting it carry her a few meters into the air, and utterly snarling up traffic. Then she followed her brother past the force shield and out to the edge of the launch platform. Heavy, mechanized bodies whipped past them in both directions, only just barely missing. Shouting over the noise of the busy swarm, she said,

"You've one-upped me on life saving. But I expect I'll have time to get even." Then, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, she said, "Luck, John! See you below!" and stepped off into the air.


	10. Chapter 10

**10**

 _Tracy Island, the lab-_

Brains stood before a specially shielded work bench, examining a "prisoner"; one of the drones they'd taken from the Mechanic's previous attack. That one had taken place underwater, so this particular drone resembled an evil dark cuttlefish. It was deactivated at the moment, laid out upon the bench like an aetherized patient awaiting surgery.

Max stood at Hackenbacker's side, recording the procedure and collecting data. He was nervous, was Max, and kept extending and retracting various tools. Even lifeless and silent, the drone had him spooked.

Grandma Tracy sat off to one side, telling her rosary beads, and giving her Lord his marching orders. It took a special person to cling to religious belief in the world of 2065; one with no fear, a major rebellious streak, and a powerful sense of individuality. Grandma Tracy had all of these traits, in spades, and she'd raised all of her boys just the same. Brains was proving a tougher case, but Grandma hoped that she'd sooner or later get through to him. At the very least, he hadn't turned them all in, and neither had Kayo.

For the time being, Dr. Hackenbacker had more immediate things on his mind. Powering up the workbench force shield, Brains said aloud,

"Okay, M- Max… I am going t- to activate our little friend, and s- see what it does. Begin, ah… r- recording."

So saying, Brains reached through the field using a pair of virtual gloves, and removed a tiny disabler from the drone's flat body. At once, it began to tremble and glow, then to flap around inside its enclosure, no doubt attempting to swim.

"S- Subject is active, but c- confined. The field seems to be preventing c- contact with the Mechanic, and his other d- drones."

"Well, that's good," said Grandma, between beads.

"Extending a p- probe within the field, to intercept attempted comm f- frequencies," the engineer told Max.

This was trickier, and involved a small antenna coming up through the surface of the workbench.

"Ah! It is b- broadcasting, indeed! I h- have its frequency. Max, are you getting this? It is 14.12 gigahertz! Th- That is a satellite frequency. I think that… Holy cow! It is attacking m- my antenna!"

The reactivated drone had flapped and jerked its way over to the exposed metal rod, and was now slashing at it with bladed tail and lasers, both.

"Nasty little so-and-so, isn't it?" said Grandma, coming up to stand at Brains' other side. "Who the heck would want to spend their lives surrounded by _these_ awful things?! That Mechanic's a real louse, and crazy, to boot. Needs to end up _under_ the jail, you ask me!"

She was openly wearing her rosary, a development which had Brains gaping in horror.

"Again, Mr. Hackenbeck," snapped Grandma, "If the GDF cares so gosh-darned much, they can kiss my saggy, wrinkled behind, and come get me!"

"H- Hopefully not, Mrs. Tracy," said Brains. He'd been Hindu, once, and he knew what "come and get me" led to. "Now, l- let us open a bit of the sh- shielding, so that we m- may test my frequency jammer."

The drone had been curled around the neutron-steel antenna, carving out chunks. When the shield opened up, it stopped its burning and slicing, dropped back to the work surface, and faced north. It also emitted a sharp, ringing **PING**.

Max reacted before even Brains or Grandma Tracy, slapping the field controls back to full power. Once more, the mechanized "fish" began aimlessly wandering about.

"Max! I d- did not have time to test m- my jammer!"

"No, Brains," said Grandma. "Could be he's right. Did you stop to think that maybe, if that thing is in contact, if it got a signal out, now they know where we are?"

"Oh, no…!" Brains whispered, dark eyes huge behind his thick glasses. "M- Mrs. Tracy, I…"

"Just you hurry with that scrammer, Brains. Something tells me we'll be needing it, soon."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Scotland, near the ruins of old Edinburgh-_

Virgil Tracy stepped away from his masterpiece, justly proud and extremely tired. By his reckoning, it had been over eighteen hours since they'd got any sleep. Alan was starting to droop, but Gordon looked good for another three or four hours. More, with music blasting through his headphones. Couldn't risk the EM "noise", though. Not yet.

"Okay, you two. Saddle up. You can catnap some, on the way. Let's see what this baby can do."

In the pod's weak light stood a real beauty, its long, gleaming drill and yellow hull fairly glowing with leashed power. Basically, he'd sleeked down and armored the Mole, giving it a sort of electromagnetic pulse cannon, besides. Naturally, none of this tech had been tested, yet. This was going to be a lot like one of Brains' famous "on the fly specials". Not the most spacious craft though; someone would have to double up.

Now, as Gordon and Alan clambered into the newly constructed vessel, their brother shouted for Scott. After a scant handful of seconds their oldest brother arrived, to stand blinking in the pod's feeble light.

"We're done," Virgil announced, showing the pilot a slim yellow drill-car on treads. "I figure, staying low and out of sight, we can dig down to the old bomb shelter for Team 56."

Scott nodded slowly, walking inspection around the small, wicked craft. He had to step carefully over all of the strewn parts and equipment, but he very much liked what he saw.

"Good call, Virgil. It's their last known location. Or, at least, the stairway was. Makes sense." Turning a bit, he gave his younger brother a searching look. "So, You'll be, um…"

"I'll be taking Gordon and Alan. They're good in tight spaces, and they do a great job at patching up victims. After Team 56, we'll come up with a plan to reach Kayo and John."

Scott said nothing, only folded his arms and nodded, again. Virgil, on the other hand, had removed his remote operations cuff, and now held it out to his brother.

"Take it," he said. "Keep my best girl out of trouble for me. Fly her up remotely, if the Mechanic attacks."

Scott Tracy accepted the cuff. He strapped it onto his own left wrist, wondering when, exactly, he'd lost control of this mission to Virgil. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment; blue eyes meeting brown; blame and cold rage making an impassable wall between them. Virgil turned away first, saying,

"Yeah. Gotta go, if we're going to have any chance at all."

"Right, then," Scott replied, looking off somewhere. "Luck, Virgil."

"We're gonna need it," was all that his brother would say.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _London, former UK, at nearly the same time-_

Inwardly, Penelope seethed. She sat in the back of her much altered, baby pink Neo-Rolls Royce. Sherbert lay asleep on her lap, short legs pedaling the air, round little tummy exposed for tickles and kisses. She'd been dressed to the hilt for this meeting, in an antique Chanel suit and Saint Laurent pumps, her hair in a sleek golden chignon. Now she was covered in dog hair, and wispy blonde tendrils were escaping control to curl round her cold, stony face.

"Stupid bloody idiots," she said, very softly. "The cheek.. The _effrontery_ , to suggest that International Rescue deserve arrest for stirring up the Mechanic!"

Up in the driver's seat, Parker risked a discreet glance at the rearview mirror. Sometimes, she spoke to herself, sometimes to him, and it was wise to know which was when. As she seemed not to be addressing him, yet, Parker turned his full attention back to the road. As usual, they had it pretty much to themselves. Very few people still drove, in 2065. Not with free public transport available to all. Even fewer required a driver.

"The Hood was quite correct," Penelope went on, savagely. "The World Council are a lot of sniveling, back-stabbing, worthless old imbeciles, and I'm well quit of them!"

Then, only marginally louder, and in altered tones, she called,

"Parker,"

"Yes, Milady?"

"What is our current situation, vis-à-vis fuel?"

"I topped 'er off before we left the Manor, Milady. Thought you might be wantin' the car after reasonin' with the World Council."

Penelope snorted, a quite un- ladylike sound which she endeavored to convert to a sneeze. Pretending to believe this, Parker handed back a fine linen handkerchief.

"Shall we be 'eading up north, Milady?" he ventured, glancing back, once again.

"Yes, indeed, Parker… with all haste. If the World Council refuse to do more than draft a "stern resolution", then it is up to us to fill the gap, and fill it, we shall. To Scotland, Parker. Quickly."

Parker smiled, hitting the switch that would trigger FAB-1's conversion from ground car to aircraft. Wheels turned in, fans deployed, and then the grille extended, providing more intake. Pulling back on the wheel, Parker took them skyward. As they soared away from the asphalt and into deepening gloom, he said,

"To Scotland, Milady. We should arrive in Forty minutes, give or take the odd wind."

Bertie woke up a bit at the car's sudden change in pitch. The little pug was well-accustomed to such odd doings by now, though, and so he merely opened an eye.

"There, Bertie! There's a good, angel-boy! Mummy has work to do, and won't my little Bertins be excited to watch?"

She tickled the delighted small dog's chubby belly with one hand. The other casually sorted the contents of her bright red, crocodile Hermes bag, until her probing fingers closed round a certain gold compact. She didn't bring the comm device forth, or attempt to use it, except to depress a certain bright jewel on its cover.

 _'We're coming,'_ she signaled. Because, if the governing council were spineless cowards, and the GDF a humorless joke, you could always rely on a Creighton-Ward; especially one with her heart in the game.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In midair, leaving the Mechanic's vessel-_

Kayo flew as fast as she could, trying to keep to the swarm's darting cover. They seemed to move en mass like a flock of birds, executing sharp turns and swoops without warning. Failing to match their grace, Kayo felt like the one off-beat clod in a line dance; always late and out of step. The jet pack buzzed and whirred against her back, ringing metallically when struck by a drone she'd flown into. Down there, somewhere, lay the dubious safety of land, but Kayo couldn't see it through all of those massed, humming forms.

 _'I hate this, I hate this, I hate this…!'_ the girl thought, wishing that she dared summon Thunderbird Shadow. Would have been nice, except that having her Bird stripped to its struts before her eyes was not something Kayo wanted to risk. She'd seen what those drones could do to a Hunter. So, onward; no matter how blind and awkward she felt.

The further trouble with swarm flight was that you were well disguised _within_ the vast cloud of drones, but obvious as a Wednesday morning hangover should you choose to break free. Still, riding the horde clear down to their half-consumed goal wasn't aces, either. Might as well have herself delivered directly by post to the Mechanic's front door. This had seemed like a much better idea, back on the launch bay.

 _'Right,'_ she decided, bracing herself, _'I'm just going to drop straight out, while there's still a chance that I'm not right on top of him.'_

Cutting power to the jetpack, Kayo began gliding steadily lower, looking about for John, as she did so. One thing was certain; goal one, as soon as she found her brother again, was that shattered stairwell, and Team 56.

 _'You're not left behind, Rayna,'_ she promised. _'You've not been forgotten!'_

Between darkness and worry, Kayo entirely failed to notice when half of the swarm darted away from the rest, and began streaming south.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, up in the kitchen-_

Grandma was hard at work, supervising the auto-chef's lunch preparations. She would have liked to try something spicy and saucy, herself, but lacked _any_ skill in the kitchen. Pouring water was just about Grandma's speed, and even that sometimes went wrong. She'd been known to burn grape Kool-Aid (a long, messy story).

At any rate, Brains had special dietary needs, so her auto-chef supervision was actually useful. That helped a bit.

"No. It's vegan!" she snapped "Vee-Gan. No meat products, you stupid heap of chips! I'll…!"

 _ **Click.**_ Grandma stopped threatening the chef to look up at her kitchen's skylight. _**Click. Click.**_

"Now, what in blazes… Oh! Oh, my." Just over her head, crouching upon the perma-glass dome, three new drones were doing their best to saw their way through.

 _ **Click.**_ Make that four. Soon the clicks were coming so fast and so hard, that it sounded like a Wyoming hail storm. A darkness like nightfall descended as the house disappeared beneath a writhing mass of mechanical bugs. The roof creaked, and perma-glass started to sag.

"Brains!" shouted Grandma. She snatched up a broom and a loaf of bread before sprinting for the lift. "Brains, you might want to hurry up with that blammer of yours! They're here!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Out on the surface, by Thunderbirds 1 and 2-_

It had been quite a sight. The mole, with Virgil driving, had rattled from its pod on big metal tank treads. Then, after rolling clear of the Birds, and finding a smooth patch of ground, she'd been lifted on her telescoping carriage, tilted at a forty-five degree angle, and fired downward, her drill whining like a giant mosquito.

Scott had stayed well back, because the Mole tended to fling rocks and dirt with abandon while it chewed into the ground. So gleeful and fierce was its debris storm, that Virgil always drew an old cartoon character, the Tasmanian Devil, on the Mole's hull. His work was a bit rushed, this time out, but still it looked pretty good.

After the last stone was flung and the final vibrations had faded away, Scott was left alone with two massive Birds. For something to do, he used Virgil's remote to bring Thunderbird 2 back down on her pod. Even remembered to close the pod door first, this time.

She settled to the ground with an earth-shaking **BOOM** , followed by the snapping noise of her clamps taking hold.

 _'Might as well be ready to roll,'_ Scott figured, feeling things that hurt too much to drag out and ponder. What he really wanted to do was talk to John, but he couldn't, because… Because he'd flown away and abandoned his brother and sister to the Mechanic.

Groaning, Scott dropped to a seat on one of the pod's empty gear crates, his head clutched tight in both hands. If a tear squeezed through, no one saw it, nor would he ever confess. Then,

 _ **Click. Snap.**_

 _'Hang on'_.

Confused, Scott lifted his head, looking around in the circle of Thunderbird 2's low beams. Something buzzed through the air, hit the dust about ten feet away, and began crawling forward, beating its wings like a drum.

"Uh-oh," said Scott, rising to his feet as more, and then more of the insect-drones landed around him. "Oh, _h*ll,_ no!"

Moving fast, he turned and raced for his Bird. On the way, Scott triggered both cabin-open, and Thunderbird 2's emergency launch, praying he'd gain the cockpit on time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Roughly the same instant, about a hundred miles north-_

Kayo dropped from the air, only a little bit battered and snatched. She'd used night vision goggles and instinct to make her way back to the collapsed bomb shelter access, and arrived to find John already waiting.

"Seriously?! How did you know where I'd go?" she half grumbled, half laughed. Stepped forward, and would have embraced him, but John moved away. Although she dared not risk a light, she could tell from his tense posture that something was urgently wrong. Smile fading, the girl whispered,

"John? What is it? What's going on?"

The devil with risk! They were in it up to their necks, already. Kayo pulled out her mini-torch, and set it to the lowest possible beam; just enough to make out John's face. For the first time all day, he was actually _looking_ at her, seeming to struggle for communication. Then,

"Kayo…"

"Yes, John. I'm listening. What is it?"

"Know… they know… here. Coming."

"The bug-drones? Coming this way?"

He managed a nod, then seemed to lose focus again, and had to claw very hard to regain it. Indicated the stairwell, saying,

"Inside… You."

"Right. Inside, _us_."

Kayo grabbed his hand and began to run for the blocked doorway, pulling her brother behind her.

"Take it they've switched codes or something, and decided we're not quite their sort?"

He didn't respond, but loped along in her wake.

"Got it. Move or talk, but not both at the same time. Still an improvement."

Kayo began to hear sharp clicking noises and dusty thumps, followed by the staccato beating of millions of wings. She reached the door and, though the rubble had shifted again, was able to barely squeeze through, still holding John by the hand. His right arm got in, and part of one shoulder, but the rest was mostly too tall and too broad to quite fit.

"NO!" Kayo shouted, hauling at him ferociously, trying to force him on through. "John, use the suit, get this debris out of the way!"

He obeyed, shifting a few slabs of concrete, until the ceiling bowed and slumped over her head, threatening to collapse. Take any more, and the whole thing would fall.

"Go," he said through the gap. "They can move… this. Won't care… falls, roof. Find 56. Get to safe, them, you."

Sounded simple, put that way. Only, he didn't, _couldn't_ know of an earlier Kayo, alone and afraid, small enough to fit where her mother and daddy could not. All at once she was back there again, hiding herself, looking on at what she was too d*mned small to prevent. Only partly in the here and now, Kayo tugged at John's arm again and again, refusing to let go. He pulled his hand free at last, using strength she could not counter, and said,

"Go. Order."

Panic solved nothing. It hadn't then, and it wouldn't now. What she needed was a good idea. Kayo kissed her fingertips and reached through the gap once more to press them on his cheek. Finding words, she said,

"Right. I've a plan. Keep them busy, John… make up a new code, tell them a logic puzzle, anything! I'll be back with my torch and the cutter!"

Then she began to run down the stairwell, leaping gaps and tilted steps by luck and instinct. To the devil with risk, again! This was no time for stealth!

Keying her wrist comm, she shouted,

"Emergency backup to the bomb shelter, NOW! Code one life-or-death, hurry!"

It was Brains who responded, saying,

"K- Kayo! It is g- good to hear your voice! We are a b- bit occupied ourselves, now, but I have a f- frequency that I think may serve as a k- kill switch, if I c- can just figure out h- how to boost it."

"Brains," she panted, running and leaping in almost complete darkness, "shut up and broadcast, _now!_ I'll find you a relay!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Outside-_

The drones had fallen silent and still, because their master had arrived. The Mechanic jet-packed into the midst of them, landing with bent knees and straightening with raw, fluid power. Looking directly at the trapped astronaut, he paced forward like a lion; slowly, and with intent.

John (he had to keep reminding himself, using the name as a focal point: _I'm John)_ was struggling hard just to complete a thought. Every word and sight, or physical touch, triggered a blizzard of data. Saw a rock, immediately flooded with every byte of information that the Global Network possessed about rocks. Each image, each page, every word. He kept rabbit-holing, falling into pits of data which threatened to utterly drown him. Even the Mechanic set off a maelstrom of news and GDF reports.

"Tracy," he boomed, bringing John back to focus, for awhile. "The Hunter's just a shell. It's AI is missing. Hand it over, die quick. Make me work, I make you scream. The little b*tch, too, once I dig her out of her bolt-hole."

' _AI?'_ John placed a protective hand over the box that hung at his belt. _'Two AIs. Accident'_ (Lost it again for a second, because the term "accident" pulled up a crap-ton of data.) But Eos was in the box, too, not just Omega.

"Stupid effing hero! You're not going to stop me. All that circuitry says you're gonna do what I want, like it or not."

The Mechanic stretched out an arm. John backed a bit, was blocked by rocks and rubble. Cycled his environment suit to gas-giant setting, then launched himself forward. Didn't take too much thought to land a punch, but one was all he got before fire and electric-hot pain shot through him; before circuits branched and cast nets, piercing organs and lancing themselves at his faltering heart.

As John collapsed to the ground, the Mechanic shook off the blow, and his shattered chest armor.

"You're gonna pay for that, Tracy. Would have done it quick, but you had to waste my time."

The astronaut fought to rise, feeling things going catastrophically wrong inside of him. Pain had ceased to register by now, except as one more shrieking system-failure alarm.

"Still trying? Let me record this. The rest of your litter deserve a treat. Can't waste all that talent."

It was then that a jet-packed thunderbolt shot out of the sky, feet first. Scott Tracy crashed hard into the gloating Mechanic, sent him rolling across the ground and into a crouch.

Rising slowly to his full height, the Mechanic snarled,

"What the h*ll?!"

"He's not alone, jackass! No Tracy is _ever_ alone!"

Should have taken another shot at the Mechanic, but instead threw himself toward John, who had finally managed to stand.

"Ready to kick some ass, Little Brother?"

Another black hole of data, around the term "ass", then back to the surface. Scott's face, grinning savagely… the Mechanic, moving closer… Kayo, somewhere.

"H*ll, yes," he growled in reply, tasting his own blood, and wanting some back. Together, they faced the Mechanic.

All around them the drones clattered and buzzed, rising into the air as a killing swarm. Then, just as fast, they shut down again; deactivated by remote-relayed signal. Victim to the same kill-message, the Mechanic's ship yawed in midair, plunging for the ground with a storm of metallic shrieks and violent explosions.

Scott fired a series of rapid punches, striking hard at face and gut. John grappled the Mechanic directly, using Jupiter-level strength to heave the man up and slam him down hard. About then, Kayo's plasma tool sliced a new doorway through rock, spilling her into the night. The Mole burst from below ground, disgorging Tracys before it had even stopped moving. A sky car landed, next, beaming the kill-signal through Penelope's compact. As soon as it touched down, Parker vaulted into the fight, holding a pack of concussion grenades.

Virgil Tracy, at the very corner of their vision, took a certain stance; legs braced, hands locked together, outstretched before him, holding something heavy and dark. Meanwhile, Gordon paced round to the other side, wielding a very long spanner.

"Drop!" Virgil shouted, "Now, or by God, I'll blow your d*mn head off! Or better yet, DO move! Give me an excuse! Please… give me an effing _excuse!"_

That rivet gun was a great prop, and it might even have worked the way Virgil so badly wanted it to, but they never found out. The Mechanic shrugged, cracked something between his fingers, and flash-banged them all.

"Watch your back, little boy," he said, hitting his jet pack. "It's not over."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Later-_

"A rivet-gun?" Scott asked, once his vision had returned, and he'd shucked off the out-of-juice jet pack. Virgil had been supervising Gordon's medical attentions to John and to Nigel. Now, he spread his hands and shrugged.

"It's all I had, Scott. Thank God he believed me, and didn't look close, huh?"

The sun was rising, looking wasted and sere through all of that smoke. Virgil was quiet for an instant longer. Then, rubbing at the back of his neck with one big hand, and staring at the ground, he said,

"Scott… figure I owe you an apology. No, let me finish! Hear me out, _then_ bark. Was thinking some ugly stuff, awhile back… only none of it was true, and… I'm sorry."

Scott sighed, then shoved his brother's shoulder.

"Nothing to apologize for, Virge. I was wrong. I admit it. There should have been another way."

Nearby, on a stretcher, John heard his brothers. And then, he did not.


	11. Chapter 11

Big thanks to Tikatu, Bow Echo, and Whathavewedone, for their kind reviews.

C.

 **11**

 _Edinburgh ruins, Former UK, early morning-_

The news from Brains and Grandma, back on Tracy Island, was about as bad as it could be, without a death to report. The house and its launch bays, according to Brains, were a total loss. Of course, his exact words had been: "C- Complete disaster," but Scott got the gist. Anyway you sliced it, International Rescue was temporarily homeless. But, hey… trouble came in threes.

Scott had no sooner gotten off the comm with Brains than Lady Penelope approached him. Ordinarily, this would have been a really positive development, and (at first) it was. She came gliding up in her tweed suit, island pearls and high heels; blonde hair doing that slightly frazzled, sexy-Penny thing.

In the pale golden light of the rising sun, she looked stunningly beautiful. Unconsciously, Scott stood a little taller, and sucked in his non-existent gut. Grinned at her, too.

Penelope smiled radiantly back and, just very slightly, leaned against his side. The contact warmed them both, as did a quick, surreptitious hand squeeze. She smelt wonderful; not at all like soot, dirt, jet pack exhaust and "hard work", but he was on duty, and so was she. More importantly, in an organization as small and close-knit as International Rescue, work-dating relationships were a real nightmare. IR was not just a fishbowl, but a bowl with 24-hour live-feed cameras and magnifying aquarium glass. Four brothers, an inquisitive sister, Grandma, Brains and Max made it d*mned difficult to do _anything_ in private.

Still… the back of his hand brushed her leg through that scratchy tweed skirt, causing her to lean harder against him… no harm in a little off-the-radar fun. His voice a bit huskier than normal, Scott said,

"Hey, Penny. Good to see you, and thanks for your help. If you hadn't relayed Brains' signal, last night, there wouldn't have been any pieces of John and me big enough to sweep up. It's good to know that we've got friends where it counts."

Her smile faded, at that.

"Yes, well… that is precisely what I wished to discuss with you, Scott."

"Uh-oh," said Scott, mentally preparing himself for the big, _'it's not you, it's me… let's just be friends,'_ speech. "That doesn't sound good."

He pulled his hand out of hers, and turned to face the crushingly lovely, ever-poised woman more directly.

"What's going on, Pen?"

"There is serious talk in the World Council… scarcely creditable, yet a fact, nevertheless… that International Rescue should face legal damages and possible arrest for, erm… "stirring up the Mechanic, and unlawful surveillance", is how the wretched old fools put it. I very much fear, Scott, that IR's status is about to change, vis-à-vis the Council of Crabby Old Barristers."

Scott blinked, so relieved that he could have collapsed. Placing his hands on her slender shoulders, he gave her another big grin, and a quick squeeze, saying,

"Is _that_ all? Relax, Pen; you know how the Council gets; voting us out of existence one minute, screaming for help, the next. Does _anyone_ take them seriously?"

Lady Penelope pursed her full lips in thought, tilting her head to one side. The fact that she looked like a model in this pose had surely nothing to do with her stance.

"Matters are no longer as they were," she told him. "Chancellor Hwa is a new force on the Council, and he seems determined to, as he phrased it, "scour this covert menace from our fair, peaceful globe". I should begin paying attention if I were you, Scott, and perhaps making preparations for _enemies_ in high places, as well."

"Right. I'll do my homework, get John to run an investigation, and find out what's got Hwa's panties in a bunch. No problem. Now, about our other situation…"

He was leaning in for a kiss, still _so_ glad that it hadn't been the "dump speech", when Gordon called out,

"Hey, Virgil? Scott? Uh… could you come over here, please?!"

There was an edge of panic to the kid's voice which instantly froze Scott's randy mood. He reached Gordon's side a half-step behind Virgil, who'd been on his comm, guiding in the GDF medical pick-up team. Gordon was kneeling beside John's anti-grav stretcher, holding a fully charged Life-Scan ™. His hazel eyes were very wide, and full of nervous concern.

"What's up, Kiddo?" Virgil asked, dropping to a crouch on the stretcher's far side.

"His life signs are fading, Virgil, like, crazy fast. I can't first-aid this one. Something's really wrong, on the inside. Like, about to _die_ wrong."

Virgil yanked the Life-Scan ™ from Gordon's hand, and then passed it over John's unconscious body, from bright hair to space boots. Staring hard at the read out, the big pilot began to curse.

"Okay, this is bad. What happened, Tadpole? He was conscious and responding, just a minute ago!"

"I don't know, Virge! I turned my back to see about Nigel's cranial pressure, and then John said something about his stomach, got sort of quiet, and now _this._ Virgil, he's not dying, is he?!"

"No. Nobody's dying. Not today, not ever. Give me your med kit."

Penelope's hand had found its way back into Scott's. Now, giving it a hard squeeze, she turned his hand loose, then went over to kneel at the head of John's stretcher. Stroking his red-golden hair, she started talking in a low, cheery voice about baseball versus cricket, and whether John would have made it big as a world champion cricket bowler. Silly nonsense, meant to hold the suddenly pallid young man from slipping any further away.

Meanwhile, Virgil tore open the med kit, dumped its contents, and used his thumb print to unlock a fake panel. Into his hand dropped a plastic-wrapped disk, about the size of an old silver dollar. Virgil looked up at Scott as he tore the package open with his teeth, spitting shredded plastic onto the ground.

Scott's gut froze still harder inside of him… but he nodded, mouthing, _'Yeah. Do it.'_ Working fast, Virgil unzipped part of John's environment suit, enough to expose his chest. Then, he placed the gleaming blue disk over the astronaut's heart, and depressed a switch. Blue energy flared, then shrank tightly around the wounded young man. Instantly, John's body grew as still and marble-cold as an ancient museum display. Life signs didn't disappear, though; they just "asterisked". Not dead, not alive, but paused; in stasis.

It was a last-ditch and risky delaying tactic, because about one person in ten never recovered from immersion in the stasis field. They just hovered there; frozen forever between life and death, becoming their own tombstone.

"Massive internal damage," Virgil muttered. _"Dammit!_ Why didn't I see that, before?!"

Gordon looked so guilty and frightened that Penny swept him into a sudden, tight hug.

"It is not your fault, Gordon," she told him, delivering at the same time, a very soft kiss to his unshaven cheek. "From the outside, he seemed to be but very little bruised, and perhaps concussed. Had you not spotted this decline, John might had died here, unnoticed. You may very well have saved him, Gordon." There was a lot going on in his heart, right then, but this was the precise moment when Gordon Tracy fell completely in love with Penelope Creighton-Ward.

Meanwhile, Virgil stood up and went over to Scott.

"Hospital?" he asked, brown eyes anxious and urgent.

"NO! No… not a good idea, Virge. You _know_ why. Let's just… let's get him home. Brains' got some pretty serious medical gear down in the infirmary. It'll be all right. It's _got_ to be all right. Come on, the GDF'll get here when they get here. Parker can stay with Team 56 until they arrive. Whistle up your bird and pack up. We're going home."

Trouble came in threes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Flying low over Tracy and San Mateo Island, a short time later-_

Kayo had got there first, owing to the blistering speed of Thunderbird Shadow. What she saw made her heart sink still further into her boots.

"God!" she whispered. "It's like a bomb went off!"

Banking low and tight, Kayo came around for another pass, and hit the record button. The undermined house had collapsed, pancaking onto the pool deck. Landslides of rubble and deactivated insect-drones had buried the dummy airstrip leading to Thunderbird 2's hidden lair. As for the round-house, it had simply ceased to exist, lasered and slashed into gravel.

"Scott…" Kayo said, fighting to keep her voice level, "There's nowhere to land. The launch bays are completely trashed."

His holo closed its blue eyes for a moment, and started rubbing at a savage headache.

"Okay, let me think… Right. The emergency "hot pad" on the other side of the island; the one we use when someone's coming in out of control. We'll put the Birds down over there, then walk to the house. Virge, you got that?"

Virgil's hologram appeared beside Scott's. Being slower, and more heavily laden, he was farther behind.

"Yeah. Hot pad, got it. Anybody tried calling Grandma, or Brains?"

"Nice to see we're on _somebody's_ mind," said the old lady. Her holo seemed to be leaning on a broom or mop, while carrying a probable bucket. Equipment wasn't generally picked up by the holo cams, which often left you guessing. "And good to see you all back. It's a mess over here. We're trapped in the lab with low power and we're almost out of bread. I'm about to start giving Max the side-eye and pulling out my carving knives!"

The robot responded with a long, nervous warble. Then, faintly, they heard Brains saying,

"It is only a j- joke, Max! Humor! M- Mrs. Tracy w- would _never_ consume you!"

"That _you_ know about!" her holo responded cheerfully, over one shoulder. "Little salt and ketchup'll perk up pretty near anything. I've et worse… and cooked worser."

She didn't know, of course. No one had had the heart to tell her. Scott puffed out a slow, nervous breath.

"What's wrong?" asked Grandma, quickly perceiving their silence and worry. "You bothered about the mess? Or getting us out of here? I got a team of GDF Seabees on their way in a cutter, and then Teddy has his power suit, so…"

She grew quiet all at once, peering sharply from face to hologrammed face. "Not that at all, is it?" she asked, flatly. "Teddy, Boo, Kayo… what's wrong? Talk to me."

Sometimes, leadership positions really, _really_ sucked. No one was trying to step on his turf this time, Scott noticed. Nope. All yours, Scotty boy. Clearing his throat, he said,

"Tell you when we get there, Grandma. Just… need to land and get to the infirmary, with a critical care trauma patient."

"Ohh…" she said, then appeared to throw the broom aside. "Fly in as quick and safe as you can, boys, Kayo. We'll be ready."

The next few days were a total blur to Scott. What had looked bad from the air was even worse on the ground. Power went from low, to none; the World Council drafted a resolution calling for the arrest of International Rescue, and the Mechanic was still out there, somewhere, presumably nursing a grudge and after the Hunter's AI. Rescues were short-range, when they happened at all. They were unarmed and undefended, except for what the Seabees' Lieutenant Kraft had been able to loan them by way of weapons.

With the help of fifteen GDF sailors and seven Marines, they shifted rubble night and day, trying to clear the launch bays before power ran out on the Birds. The cutter _Union Jack_ could supply a little, but not enough to keep all three Birds operational and flight-worthy.

The team had been roughing it out on the beach with the Marines, for the most part living like castaways… but worst of all was the situation with John. Brains had protested inexperience when faced with the task of raising the nearly dead.

"S- Scott!" he said, wringing his hands, "I am not a ph- physician! I c- cannot do more than p- program med-bots and scanners! N- Not even first aid! How am I, ah… am I supposed t- to heal a wound of such serious nature?!"

They were in the infirmary, about a week after arrival. The place was running on a slim, generator budget, drawing most of their power. John's bed was behind them, inside a plastic tarp cubicle. Only way to maintain a semi-sterile, air-conditioned environment. Max was nearby, fueling up the generator, again.

"Brains…" Scott began, leaning in close. "Don't bring me problems, without a solution on tap and ready for deployment. Get creative. You're a genius, dammit! Make… this… happen. Understood?"

Max rolled backward out of reach, whistling plaintively. Brains took off his spectacles; cleaned them on his shirt. His Adam's apple began to bob wildly along his neck. Then,

"John is y- your brother, and he is m- my good friend. I am n- not "bringing you problems", Scott. I am t- telling the truth. There is s- simply too much damage to major organs f- for this equipment to, ah… t- to repair."

But Scott wasn't having any.

"Not good enough, Brains. Think of something. Save his life. God d*mn it, _DO YOU THINK I DON'T WISH IT WAS ME, LYING THERE?! DO YOU?! IF I COULD DO SOMETHING MYSELF, I WOULD!_ I would…"

Scott started shaking, then mastered himself. Straightening up to his full height, he said,

"I'm expecting a plan on my desk at 0800, tomorrow morning. That's all."

Once he'd left the infirmary, Brains cast an anxious glance at the billowing plastic-sheet cubicle, then thumped back into the rolling chair behind his own desk.

"G- Get creative," he mumbled, reaching into the lab's computer interface globe. "Well, M- max, perhaps exotic, f- fringe medicine will have many un-guessed-of p- possibilities."

He fervently hoped so, at any rate, and not just because Scott Tracy was once again behaving like a giant, walking…,

"Ah! Wh- What have we here?" Hackenbacker manipulated files in the interface globe, bringing up data related to surgical nanobots; a barely funded and wildly radical treatment for severe trauma cases. Smacked too much of artificial intelligence for the World Council's comfort, which explained why it was so little researched.

"Nanobots…" he murmured, after examining the files for an hour. "I have b- been known previously to employ n- nanotechnology in repairing and b- building machines. P- perhaps the ones we have may, ah… may be r- reprogrammed, Max?"

The robot had been squatting low on its wheels beside his chair, in sleep mode. Now it snaked up its head on that long neck to examine the opened data file. After a moment, Max emitted a rapid series of beeps, some of them questioning.

"I kn- know it is in th- the earliest phase of human t- trials, Max, but the tech s- seems most solid!"

The engineer's face settled into strong, grim lines. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, and jammed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, saying,

"I w- will try, but I am doing th- this, let the Universe hear, for my friend John, and f- for Grandma, who d- did not reveal my mistake. _Not_ for S- Scott d*mn Tracy, who may experience c- catastrophic engine failures in all non-essential body p- parts, for the rest of his life!"

Max tweeted agreement, looking on as Brains began his research and alterations. It was nearly two AM when he at last sat back, rubbing red, tired eyes. Almost, he had a plan. Nearly, he was ready to start. But first, well… First, he needed permission, and not from Scott, either. Virgil was discarded as an option, too, as he would be knee-deep in rebuilding talk with Lieutenant Kraft… and not the one to make such a decision, anyhow. There was only one real choice.

A quick shift of his comm setting brought up Grandma, who was berthed in one of the Island's few remaining useable rooms.

"M- Mrs. Tracy!" he called, softly. Would have expected a harder time waking the old woman, but she roused very quickly, sitting up in bed and reaching for something that turned out to be her glasses.

"Oh, it's you, Brains. AM, or PM?"

"AM, sadly M- Mrs. Tracy. I am very s- sorry for rousing you at such, ah… s- such an impolite hour, but I am very much needing advice."

"About Johnny?" she guessed shrewdly, starting to rise with a fling of what was probably her sheet.

"Y- Yes, Ma'am. If I could be s- seeing you, soon, it is a m- matter of urgency."

"Brains, I'll move faster than the Good Lord ever intended old bones to hustle. Hold that thought!"

True to her word, Grandma Tracy threw on an old plaid robe, and practically flew, reaching the infirmary, blinking and out of breath, in under seven minutes.

Peering hopefully at the engineer's face, she searched for signs of good news. Seeing only concern, though, she whispered,

"I should sit down, shouldn't I?"

"Y- Yes, Ma'am… it might b- be most wise of you to do so."

"Okay, Brains," said Grandma, lowering herself to a perch on the edge of his desk. "I'm as ready as I can bring myself to get. What's going on? Bad news?"

Brains shook his head.

"N- Not bad news, necessarily, Mrs. Tracy, b- but I will be requiring permission fr- from someone responsible, with a clearness of, ah… of thinking."

"Yup," she nodded. "That'd be me, all right. Fire away, Brains."

"Yes. I will f- fire." Once again, Brains took off his glasses, and began minutely polishing, all around both of his lenses. Nervous habit. "Mrs. Tracy, there is treatment which I m- might try, if given, ah… g- given permission. It involves the use of s- specially programmed, injectable surgery nanobots to perform s- system wide micro-repairs upon heavily d- damaged organs. It has b- been used successfully f- five times, failed twice."

Grandma Tracy gave him a brief nod.

"I see. Not the best odds. Go on, Brains. Something tells me there's more."

"Y- Yes, indeed, Ma'am, there is. Y- You see, the patient c- cannot be still in stasis, or the bots w- will freeze, as well. John must b- be removed from the field, before injection."

Again, Grandma nodded her understanding.

"And…?" she prodded, gently.

"And, above the r- risk that he does not emerge from stasis at all, John may p- perish of his injuries, before the b- bots can heal him. Th- That is all of it, Mrs. Tracy. I s- simply need y- your permission to proceed."

Grandma just breathed for a bit, looking past Brains, at nothing but night. Then, swallowing hard, she said,

"You have my permission, Brains… but first, I need some time with my baby boy. Can I have a few minutes, please?"

Dr. Hackenbacker reached over, took the old woman's hands in both of his, and gave them a gentle squeeze.

"Of c- course, Ma'am. Max and I shall w- wait outside."

And off he went, leaving Grandma Tracy to square her thin shoulders in Grant's old robe, and walk into that cubicle, alone.

Trapped between one breath, one heartbeat and the next, John lay perfectly still, cold and remote as a fairy-tale prince. Grandma Tracy took a seat beside his bed. Placing a hand on his forehead, she stroked back his hair, saying,

"Well, Sweet Boy…" paused to swallow and blink. "Johnny, this may have to be goodbye. Lord knows I don't want it to be… I want you to get up off that bed and _live._ I want you to fly in space, play baseball, laugh at your brothers, and someday have a dozen kids of your own… but I had a decision to make, and I chose the best way I knew how. In case it don't work, find your dad and your granddaddy, and give 'em my love, baby boy."

Leaning over, she kissed his cold forehead, and made a quick, secret sign there.

"I'm gonna go, now, Johnny, and the second-smartest guy I know's gonna do his damndest to help you live. Goodbye, baby. I was there when you was delivered, and I'm here with you, now. You've been a joy, all your life."

Just outside, she found Brains. Her back was straight, her head erect, not a tear on her face.

"Sh- Should I call for the others?" he asked, placing a hand on the old woman's shoulder.

"Will it help you any, to have them here?"

"N- No. Honestly, M- Ma'am, it will not. They w- will be frightened, and th- thus, very tense."

"Then let 'em be. I take full responsibility, Brains. Do whatever you can to save my boy." Then she gave his arm a pat, and went to sit down at the desk, with her rosary.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _A few minutes later, inside the cubicle-_

With Max attending, Brains put on his best rendition of surgical scrubs, and got to work. Loading up a syringe full of saline solution and repurposed nanobots, the engineer came to the bedside, and switched on all of its critical-care equipment. Not detecting pulse or respiration, the machinery remained silent, at first.

Next, he located a decent vein; bluish-green against the pale skin of John's throat. With his other hand, Brains reached over to the stasis disk, readying himself to switch the thing off.

"M- Max," he said, "I am n- not wishing so much responsibility, ever again. We w- will do this together, as one. At m- my signal, deactivate the, ah… the d- disk, and I will inject. R- Ready, Max?"

The robot rolled farther forward, lens covers forming a straight, determined line above its twin cameras. Chirping once, Max reached out with a jointed arm, one digit poised to tap the disk at Brains' signal. They stared at one another for a heartbeat or so. Then, Brains said,

"3… 2… 1… _Now, Max!"_

The disk deactivated perhaps a quarter of a second before the needle slid home and its plunger slammed to. Color and warmth (though not much of either) returned to John Tracy. Almost instantly, the critical-care monitors began shrieking and beeping, causing the woman outside to gasp. As the nanobots flared through the chosen vein and into the astronaut's body cavity, Hackenbacker set down his syringe, saying quietly,

"John, m- my friend, it is very much w- wanted that you sh- should recover. B- Be kind to your revered grandmother, please, and, ah… and bring g- gladness to her many years."

Seconds passed, then minutes. Brains watched the clock, and his friend. He had a secret weapon, though; another stasis disk, out of its wrapper and ready to deploy, just in case. Ten minutes, twenty… half an hour, and one by one, the alarms grew quiet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _0800, Scott Tracy's new makeshift "office"-_

Brains strode into the tent that served as International Rescue's temporary headquarters. Scott was there, sitting upright behind his desk, looking very much like a man who hadn't slept all night.

Virgil was present, as well, talking intently with Lieutenant Emma Kraft. Having excavated Thunderbird 2's hangar and airstrip, they could snake power feeds now to the other Birds, as well, which would put IR back in business… provided they weren't all hauled off in cuffs, first.

Scott had been listening to the pair argue about plasma couplings and voltage regulators all morning long. When Hackenbacker came in, however, he stood slowly upright.

"Brains?" he said, staring hard at the engineer's face.

"Y- Yes, Scott. I am here with, ah… with my report. It is that you should g- go see your brother."

Virgil seemed to comprehend, immediately. Turning first pale, then flushed and ruddy, he shot Lieutenant Kraft a quick nod, then double-timed it out of the tent, running like he had a ball in his grasp, and the end zone before him. Scott stood swaying for an instant. Then, he snapped,

"What are you saying, Brains? What are you trying to tell me?!"

"Th- That you brother, John w- would perhaps like to speak with you, as h- he already is w- with the others."

Scott put both hands down on the desktop, hard. Closing his eyes, he released a very long, shaky breath. Then, as Lieutenant Kraft backed quietly out of the tent, Scott said,

"I can't, Brains. This was my fault, all of it. I…"

"N- no! You will listen now, Scott Tracy! You h- have yelled, and you have b- barked, and you have d- demanded, and I h- have done as you said me to d- do! Now, _you_ will stop acting l- like a child, and welcome your b- brother, Mr. "Can't show any emotion but anger" Scott Tracy!"

The pilot blinked. Then, lifting his head, Scott gave the furious engineer a respectful salute, and hurried out of his command tent, back to the house.


	12. Chapter 12

**12**

 _Tracy Island, the infirmary-_

He came to, again, very suddenly. Was disoriented by the leap from Scotland at dawn to the Island in flickering artificial light, being stared at by Grandma and Brains. Max, too.

Not bad to look at them, because they weren't famous enough to cause much of an internal data storm. The medical equipment was a little worse, but mostly just landed him waist-deep in adverts and trade articles; easy enough to ignore. Getting better at this, possibly.

Grandma was fussing; pushing hair off his face, and moving the sheets around. (And thank God, no one cared much about bed linens; not enough to devote millions of internet pages to the subject, anyhow.) Brains was beaming at him, talking very fast and waving his arms a lot. Too much movement. John… (he _was_ John; focus on the name, Tracy, build everything else up, every d*mn time, from there.) John started to turn his head away, then noticed that everything around him seemed to slow down. Brains and Grandma were still there, still talking; but they seemed to be doing it through syrup, now.

"… feeling, Johnny?" said his grandmother, offering water in a cup with a straw. Focusing hard, he reached out to draw the cup toward him, and then drink. Throat still hurt. Then,

"Better," he said, guessing that she'd asked about his health. Fortunately, it did not take much input from his end to keep Grandma happy and talking. Would have liked to find out what had happened, though. And _that_ stupid thought sparked a crap-storm of trouble, because he was instantly deluged by millions of news reports and GDF classified data files. Found out, though; and recovered sooner.

Brains had stepped away from the bed, fiddling with his wrist comm. Almost before he'd turned back, others burst into the small plastic room. John sorted them after a moment of blind overload, into Kayo, Gordon and Alan. That was bad. Gordon, especially, had so much data attached, and so many fan pages, that John was swept away, hard. Shrieking fangirl stuff, mostly, but also swimming and boat-racing stats. He managed to clear it all out and focus again, because he was being hugged and shaken and named, very loudly. (John, again; that was it.)

It only got worse when Virgil arrived, and then Scott. They wouldn't stop talking, asking questions, wanting to touch him. He saw the room and their faces as brief flickered shadows, surrounded by bright arcs of data. Too much, too fast, too painful, and no way to explain. Not really.

 _'Home,'_ he thought, fighting panic. _'I need to go home.'_

They loved him, and he knew it… but he had to get out, ASA-right-the-h*ll-now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Later that day, atop the still settling wreckage-_

Virgil Tracy stood amidst what remained of the roundhouse. He was in uniform and wearing his powered exo-suit, trying to clear a path to Thunderbird 3.

The day was hot, with a fierce, gusty wind and an unrelenting sun, but Virgil couldn't stop working. Didn't _want_ to stop. John was going to be fine; that was something. A little dazed and concussed, maybe, but alive. They hadn't lost anyone else.

That thought made Virgil smile as he labored to lever and hurl giant steel girders and struts. People were irreplaceable. Anything else could be bought, or rebuilt. He was humming part of another old classical piece… _'Ride of the Valkyries'_ … when someone came picking their way through the wreckage toward him. Instantly, Virgil put down the debris he'd been playfully swinging, stopped humming, and wiped the big smile off his face.

The "someone" was Lieutenant Kraft, coming toward him with a couple of armed and watch-dog alert Marines. She was dressed for business in blue camo pants, a black navy tee-shirt, and combat boots; her brownish-blonde hair caught back in an untidy bun. The Marines were in tan-and-green camo, and they carried some very large rifles. Fighting envy, Virgil triggered a switch, and stepped out of his exo-suit, which powered down behind him.

The officer lifted a hand in greeting, calling,

"Afternoon, Mr. Tracy!"

Virgil frowned.

"You can call me Virgil, Lieutenant," he said to her. "Mr. Tracy is my dad."

Kraft nodded, continuing to wend her careful path over shattered rubble and lifeless drones. She kicked one as she walked, muttering,

"Too bad you can't just rake these things up, bag 'em and put 'em out on the kerb." Kraft hated the mess almost as much as Virgil did. She'd seen pictures from before the attack, having gone over reconstruction plans with Virgil and Brains, and this ruin was heartbreaking.

"That would be nice," he agreed, mopping at his grimy and sweat-slick forehead. "But we haven't had regular trash pickup since… ever. But enough about trash. What brings you up this way, Lieutenant?"

"Emma," she corrected. "That is, if we're being informal. Otherwise, "ma'am" will do." Then, turning her head a little to address her impassive escort, she barked: "Rodriguez… Blake… perimeter!"

"Ma'am!" They saluted, separating to take watch posts on higher ground. Once the two burly young men were out of earshot, she put both hands on her hips, studied the ground for a moment, and then said,

"We're being re-deployed, Virgil. New orders. The brass wants us off Tracy Island by 0630, tomorrow."

Whoa. Virgil's mouth dropped open, for a second. Until now, he hadn't realized how much he'd been reassured by the presence of allies.

"Just like that, huh? Was it something we said?"

Kraft seemed not to notice the joke, and looked actually upset by her own bad news.

"I'd say that they're clearing the stage, Virgil. Off the record, of course. We've been here too long, and our mission readiness has been compromised. They want fresh, uninvolved forces, for whatever comes next." Her frank green eyes met Virgil Tracy's brown ones, looking not happy at all. "And, um… my advice would be, get the h*ll out of Dodge. They're coming for you, and the Birds."

"Okay, understood…" Virgil replied, folding his arms across his broad chest. "But why tell _me?"_

The young officer shrugged, groping to frame a response.

"I don't know. Maybe it's just that I like you. You're a natural leader. That other guy, your brother, seems a little high-strung. Get the feeling he'd start yelling, as soon as I told him."

She shook her head, loosening a strand of fine, blondish hair.

"Officers like that get relieved of command. Not advice, just a comment. I, um…" Kraft shifted her stance, looked around for a moment, and then added, "I might have a plan, though. _Union Jack_ might experience a sudden malfunction, and be _unable_ to leave. Could give you time for your government contact, Lady What's-her-name, to get that resolution retracted. What d'you think?"

Virgil shook his head.

"I think I don't want you court-martialed for sabotaging your own equipment, and I don't want you guys in harm's way, if the Mechanic shows up. You know what he's like, Emma."

She stiffened at that, snapping,

"I also know what my crew is like, _Mister_ Tracy, and my vessel. GDF means "God-D*mned Ferocious" as far as we're concerned. You people don't even have effing _slingshots_!"

"Ouch. Can't argue that." The sidearm he wore was one of hers, and he didn't want to give it, or the cutter, up. Not really. "Okay, how 'bout this: _you_ don't do a thing to your ship. Gordon sneaks out in Thunderbird 4 tonight, with a load of junk and neutron-steel cable, and fouls your screw and anchor. BAM. Stuck, with no real damage. Your thoughts, Lieutenant?"

"Emma," she corrected, grinning suddenly. "I like how your mind works, Virgil Tracy. We'll make a Seabee out of you, yet." Then, reaching up into her black backpack, "Hungry? I've got some halfway decent MREs left over from the arctic cruise. Not too bad, depending on the dessert."

She tossed him a flat, grey-green package, and a small water canteen. Print on the outside was nearly illegible, but it either said "beef" or "beets", and Virgil was hungry enough not to care which. Nodding his thanks, he slit the bag open and began pulling out "lunch surprise".

"You got cookies," said Kraft, wandering over with an MRE of her own, and a half-eaten brownie. Virgil was already scarfing them down, barely pausing to chew.

"The peanut butter cookies are pretty good," Emma commented, sorting through the rest of her government-issue lunch. "But I wouldn't try the strawberry cream ones. They were made before the conflicts, and they taste like ass."

Virgil spat cookie crumbs, which made Emma nearly double over, laughing.

"Gotcha, Tracy! They're not _that_ awful. Just a little radioactive, possibly. Eat 'em fast and hope for the best, that's my strategy."

Right. A slow, crafty smile slid across Virgil's face, as an idea seized him.

"Know what, Emma?" he said, doing his best to seem totally guileless. "My grandmother's cooking dinner, tonight, over near the pool deck. Why don't you come over and join us? I guarantee you a meal you'll _never_ forget."

Round two.


	13. Chapter 13

**13**

 _Tracy Island, in the new Quonset hut office-_

Scott's expression was priceless; equal parts incredulity and horror.

"You invited someone to… _dinner?!"_ he demanded.

 _"Here?"_ added Gordon, equally perplexed.

"But, Virgil," Alan cut in, "We want them to stay!"

"Just being neighborly," the middle Tracy insisted, refusing to budge.

"Virgil, that's not neighborly, it's homicidal," said Gordon, looking at his brother like he'd grown a third eye. "And it's a female?"

"Yeah. The lieutenant," he expanded, before they could ask. "No… it isn't like that! It's… I mean…" How could he explain bloody-minded vengeance, delivered at the end of Grandma's flaming spatula? "It's a social event, to thank our guests for their service."

"Yeah. _Last_ ruddy guests we'll likely get, if they're exposed to Grandma's "ultimate surprise menu". Nice work, Virgil."

"Maybe it's not too late to cancel?" said Scott, sounding hopeful.

But Virgil shook his head no, quite firmly.

"Sorry. They'll be arriving at 1700 sharp, expecting food and R&R. They're bringing the flatware and plates, and staying for kitchen detail. I told Grandma and Max to go all out. Should be really interesting."

"Y' know, Virge, if you just want to rescue her from choking, or something, there's easier ways to look heroic," reasoned Gordon. "You don't have to poison _us_ , too."

Alan rolled his sky-blue eyes.

"Don't know what _you're_ complaining about, Gordon. You don't even have to be there! While we're writhing in agony, you're going to be out in Thunderbird 4, bunging up Union Jack!" Then, in a mock tragic voice, "We could've had sandwiches, but nooo!"

John was in the large, echoing metal hut, as well; sort of off to one side. He'd found one of his old earpieces, earlier that day, and had been tinkering with it incessantly ever since, using micro-tools supplied by the Seabees. Now, he slipped the small metal and plastic device into his left ear and paused, an intent look on his face; blue-green eyes narrowed in concentration.

Meanwhile, Gordon flexed a little, and said,

"One of those female gunners has been giving me the eye, all week. This may be a _long_ mission."

Scott opened his mouth for a sharp rebuke, then shut it, again. At last, he said,

"Be careful, Gordon. Don't get caught."

The young aquanaut looked offended.

 _"Me?"_ he indicated himself, a gloved hand tapping his own muscular chest. "I don't _get_ caught, Scott. I slip in, strike… and recede, like the tide."

"Yeah, so what happened that time in Barbados?" Alan needled him.

"I _meant_ to do that. All part of the Gordon Tracy master plan, which you, "Sprout", would _not_ understand. Now, quiet. Adults are talking."

About that time, John walked over to his older brother.

"Scott," he called, quietly.

"Yeah?" the pilot responded, not turning around. The boys had descended to shoving, by then, and he was wondering whether or not to intervene.

"Say something. Mention a word."

Suddenly curious, Scott pivoted to face his tall younger brother.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Doesn't matter. Anything."

"Um, okay…" Scott mused, coming up finally with, "Hot dog".

John looked extremely focused, then; like hot dogs were just hella fascinating.

"Okay, do another. Say something else."

"Uh… donuts?"

"Lasagna," piped up Alan, who was becoming rather hungry. Then, "Why are we even talking about real food? It just makes things worse!"

John only shrugged, looking obscurely pleased with something they… or he… had said or done. Sometimes, there was just no figuring that guy out. Well, every family had one, Scott supposed, glad that at least John had started talking again. Things were looking better, already; and maybe the dinner would turn out all right, after all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Much later that day, at a cleared space, by the old pool deck-_

Lieutenant Kraft had turned up with her first officer, a young fellow named Second Lieutenant Reeves, and an escort of four Marines. The escort had been supposed to merely stand guard, but Grandma Tracy wouldn't allow it.

"Nobody here goes hungry!" she announced, causing Alan to sigh and slide down a little lower in his chair. "Tell those boys to have a seat, Lieutenant Kraft. Brains is on monitor duty; won't anything happen, I promise."

At last, somewhat grumpily, Kraft had relented, and now the four Marines had a seat at the long, plank table. Penelope was present, seated by Scott. Parker was out somewhere roaming the tropical forest, having more interest in surveillance than in dinner. Kayo sat beside John, who seemed to have just rediscovered the concept of small talk. Grandma had placed herself at his other side, and didn't mind his awkward practice, one bit.

Virgil was positioned next to Emma Kraft, who'd chosen to wear her sharpest dress whites for the occasion. She looked surprisingly elegant, with tiny gold studs in each ear, and what might have been eye-makeup. Virgil was by no means a qualified judge. As for the Tracys, they were out of uniform, wearing what Grandma called "Sunday best". Not suit and tie, though. Even for guests, there were limits.

By this time, the weather had cooled, and there was a soft, steady breeze from the ocean. Emma glanced at John as she sat, did a double-take, and then looked again, longer.

"Yeah. He gets that a lot," Virgil told her, piling her plate to the rim with Mongolian Beef Sprinkle Delight.

"Your brother? I mean… your _other_ brother? Crap, Tracy. How many of you _are_ there? No one has families this big, anymore!"

"Don't know why not," said Virgil, adding plenty of Grandma's special spicy Coca-Cola Mustard sauce. "John's kind of… _different_ … but he's my older brother. He taught me how to throw a ball, and stay on a bike, and if I ever got bullied, he was right there to bust it up. I can't imagine growing up _without_ a big family. How's the food?"

By this time, Emma had sampled a bit of the mountain he'd stacked on her plate. A very small bit. Her face changed color and expression at least seven times on that one tiny mouthful. Virgil kept count.

Perhaps she wanted to say, _"Virgil Tracy, you are the inhuman scrapings of a mole rat's behind!"_ but what came out (after a long pull of water) was,

"Reminds me of something I ate in an Army mess hall, once. Think it was drink-the-cook-under-the-table night. Your grandmother ever serve in the GDF land forces, in a culinary or biological warfare capacity?"

"No," Virgil laughed. "She tests her creations on us. Builds hairy chests. But, hey… your Marines are going back for seconds."

"Yeah. They would. I don't think the concoction has been brewed, burnt or smoked that could floor a Marine. And, there's always ketchup."

"Amen to that," Said Virgil, reaching for the nearest bottle of tomato salvation; his vengeance forgotten. "And you haven't even tried the salad, yet. Best sampled drunk, or with a really bad head cold."

They laughed together, and clinked plastic shipboard tumblers. All in all, not a bad start.

Not far away, Scott and Penelope held hands under the table. They were trying not to be obvious about it. Unfortunately, as Scott was right-handed, and now had to use his left exclusively, everyone knew what was happening.

Didn't matter; he noticed nothing but Penny. Could've been eating filet mignon or crispy-burnt cheese toast (breakfast of champions). It all would have tasted the same to Scott Tracy.

"But, you'll be back?" he was saying, close to her ear.

"If I am able," she whispered. "At the moment, I am of greater use to International Rescue in London, than I am, here. Your Naval allies are buying us a modicum of time. I intend to make full use of that respite, to exert every wile and subterfuge in my arsenal. Hwa may be a right old serpent, but he's come up against a Creighton-Ward, this time, and he shall not prevail."

Shifting her position very carefully, Penny brought her thigh up against Scott's, and pressed it there.

"If we leave tonight, Parker and I shall arrive in London before the council meets for first session. If John is available to perform a few sideline investigations for me…?"

She probed gently, lifting her fair golden eyebrows. Scott (who would have agreed to pretty much anything, at that point) said,

"Yeah. Sure… he's at your disposal, Pen. Just let him know what you need."

"Thank you, Scott. I shall." She had blackmail in mind, and intended to flush out every skeleton that rattled and danced in Hwa's closet. So, the vicious old wart was afraid of 'illegal surveillance'? Then, let him discover just how much a true hacker could dredge up.

Meanwhile, a few yards away, Kayo looked around her and noticed behavior. Sometimes, she felt like a wolf pup who'd been raised among border collies. All her instincts were wrong; too savage, too selfish. But having seen the other side from the perspective of her loving adoptive family, Kayo could no longer accept the life of a ruthless predator. The thought sickened her. If only, the girl sighed, poking at the quivering mess on her plate, if only she could completely re-mold herself, and truly become like those she'd been raised with. God knew that she'd tried… but intrusive thoughts would keep breaking through, leaving Kayo ashamed and insecure in this family of natural-born heroes. That they'd accepted her so completely only made matters worse.

 _'Why did you do it, Dad?"_ she pled, remembering Jeff Tracy's strong hands reaching down to pull her out of her hiding place. Recalling how he'd covered her eyes to shield her from the sight of her parents' torn bodies. _'You should have left me there. It would have been better for everyone.'_ Then, biting her full lower lip, _'Please, Dad, wherever you are… don't let me screw up. Don't let me ever betray them.'_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 4, slipping through the bay's dark waters-_

Gordon had taken his leave of Gunner's Mate Second Class Cassandra Chase; exhausted, but happy. They'd exchanged contact information, and he'd promised to call, only slightly nagged by thoughts of Lady Penelope.

Now, he was alone once again in Thunderbird 4, cruising along with the current, and daydreaming rather more than was wise. Of course, he'd given her a tour. They _all_ wanted a ride in Thunderbird 4. The snug little Sea Bird still smelt of her perfume, and that kept his thoughts going back to the previous hour.

Then the ship's red-painted bottom hove into view, it's anchor chain stretched like a man-thick tether, disappearing into darkness. Fish darted in and out past the heavy steel links, confused by his lights. Giving his Bird a little right rudder, Gordon turned to slip past Union Jack's hull, heading toward the stern.

He was supposed to use a cable reel to lightly foul the ship's screws, then do the same to Union Jack's anchor, which would require a deeper dive. Wasn't returning to the launch bay anytime soon, either, because when Lieutenant Kraft decided that it was time to move, Gordon had to be there, ready to cut the ship free. Simple plan. Easy.

…in other words, the kind that almost always went wrong. Gordon had passed about a hundred yards of grey and red hull, when he saw the first drill-bomb.


	14. Chapter 14

**14**

 _Tracy Island, at a cleared space near the buried pool deck-_

On the surface of things, Lieutenant Emma Kraft appeared to be just a Naval officer in her dress whites, onshore, enjoying a social function. Food could have been (a lot) better, but the company was certainly interesting.

Six days previous, her ship had received an astonishing distress call from Tracy Island, of all places, indicating that two people were trapped beneath a collapsed building. The Flag-class cutter Union Jack, commanded by Lieutenant Kraft, had altered course to deliver aid and comfort, which was when they'd become over-involved with the Tracys, and International Rescue.

Having weathered a ferocious attack, the island's structures were essentially demolished. Kraft hadn't found a wall standing, or a piece of equipment undamaged. Now, what she _should_ have done, probably, was to help rescue the trapped victims, and then return to normal operations. What she _had_ done was anchor in the bay, then have her crew pitch in to help with clean-up and logistics.

Obviously. How often in a Navy officer's career did she get to say, "I hauled IR out of a jam"? So, here she was. Here they all were, emotionally involved and mission-compromised. Now they'd been ordered to leave; to abandon the unarmed Tracys to whatever the World Council intended for them. Only… Kraft couldn't do it.

An odd bunch, the Tracys, but friendly and good-hearted. Maybe a bit _too_ friendly, in the case of one of their younger teammates. Much more fraternization from that quarter, and Kraft was going to have to start holding large-group disciplinary Captain's Masts (in an auditorium).

Then, there was the other one, Virgil. Kraft had worked closely with him to set up generators, Quonset huts and temporary living quarters. Through Virgil, she'd also supplied the group with small arms; promising the cover of Union Jack's laser cannon, in case of renewed attack. She'd come to like and respect him, but, more to the point…

Virgil Tracy was a big young man, about her own age, and he cleaned up nicely. He also talked a lot, in a totally disarming, "nothing to hide" sort of way. Kraft got the impression that (other than trying to poison her with this Godawful meal) the cargo pilot was good clean through; someone other people would naturally follow.

Now, as she listened through her earpiece for updates from Union Jack, Kraft found herself paying greater and greater attention to the handsome civilian beside her. On the one hand, _nobody_ crept past her ship in a sub, meaning to foul the screws and anchors, without the lieutenant's complete, clandestine attention (especially "Randy Andy"). On the other hand, Virgil Tracy was a very hard man to ignore.

"Somebody ought to take a picture," he mused, looking around the crowded table at his family and guests. "We almost _never_ get this dressed up. It's uniforms or scruffies, most of the time." Then, tugging slightly at the sleeves of his tan corduroy dinner jacket, "I have to get most of mine specially tailored, you know." Virgil paused, gave her a sidelong glance, and said, "Because of, um… big shoulders."

Emma just barely managed not to smile, thinking, _'Are you flirting with me, Mister?'_ What she actually said was,

"That must be a serious issue, this far from the mainland. You boys don't get out much, do you?"

"Well…" he leaned back in his chair and stretched, making the wood creak alarmingly. "Yes and no. Depends on what you mean by "get out". Yes: we're constantly moving around, all over the world and out to the colonies, sometimes. No: we, uh… we really don't have much time to relax. One nice thing, though; my office has a helluva view."

Emma nodded and smiled, liking him better by the moment.

"I'll bet. So does mine. Nice when you love what you do, isn't it?"

Virgil completed his stretch, then sat upright again, looking her straight in the eye.

"So, you, uh… You want to see my Bird?"

Startled, Kraft drew a sharp breath to reply. Never got the chance. It was at that precise instant that her earpiece pinged, and she got a message from the comm watch on Union Jack. She was up out of her chair at a lunge, causing it to clatter and skid behind her.

 _"Back to the ship!"_ she shouted aloud. _"All hands return to the ship, double-time!"_

Virgil had arisen, too. All around them, the XO and Marines were already moving.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"If you can keep up," she shot back, breaking into a run. "Stop to say "huh?", and you're talking to yourself, Tracy!"

And then she raced off, surrounded by well-fed Marines; Virgil Tracy thudding along at her side like a Clydesdale.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _A bit earlier, in Thunderbird 4-_

Gordon Tracy's gut clenched and his heart began hammering. Not just _one_ drill bomb, but five; spaced evenly along the ship's keel. If detonated, they would instantly snap Union Jack's spine, sending her straight to the bottom in chunks. The loss of life would be almost total, unless someone happened to be in a sealed compartment when the ship ripped apart.

For a second, all Gordon could think of was Cassie, the gunner's mate. She'd been headed back to her berth for a shower and rest. He could see her dark eyes and her cinnamon skin, feel the brush of her soft goodbye kiss on his cheek. She was in there, somewhere, and the ship was rigged to explode and go down with all hands. Men and women he knew, people he'd worked, kidded and eaten with, were going to die.

Thunderbird 4 had been purring softly through the water, easing closer to Union Jack. Now, though, Gordon throttled back, killing his forward impellers and cutting the lights.

"Quiet, girl," he whispered, staring out through his perma-glass view screen at death. Drill bombs could be dispatched remotely, and rigged to detonate later, when their target was in the desired position. They were also motion-, light- and proximity-sensitive, and able to pick up all subsurface comm broadcasts. Dark, ugly things; like rusted scabs with red, blinking lights in the center.

No telling how long they'd been there, or when their time would run out, but Gordon had to assume the worst; that any second now, Union Jack would become an undersea gravesite.

"Okay, right. _Think,_ Tracy!" he told himself. "Daren't get any closer… or send a comm message… Got to warn them, though, and fast. Right, got it. Just hope someone in there is paying attention."

Pulling a socket wrench out of his bulkhead toolkit, Gordon began tapping against the perma-glass window.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Union Jack_ _, in the communications center-_

Petty Officer Cameron Wolf sat at the comm post, idly listening to fish, distant whale song, and the sound of a small IR sub going by. Lieutenant Kraft had ordered a double watch and five-minute reporting throughout the night. Wouldn't say why, except to state that there'd be some "below surface activity" from the team on Tracy Island.

So, he waited and he listened, detecting water humming through the anchor chain, and then past a smallish, one-man submersible. On informing the Old Lady (who'd gone ashore to placate the locals) he'd been advised that IR was out on maneuvers, and told to stand down. Then, Petty Officer Wolf heard something else. Tapping, it sounded like. Not random, either, and maybe not aboard ship. Hitting a ship-circuit comm switch, the Petty Officer announced,

"All hands, protocol: silent."

At once, nearly all activity on Union Jack came to a halt, was padded, or cycled down next to nothing. Shoes came off, and no one would even have strained too hard on the latrine. The tapping persisted, with a definite pattern.

"I know this…" Wolf muttered. "It's old Morse Code!"

Along with semaphore, still required training in the GDF Navy. Mentally high-fiving himself for making the connection, Wolf motioned Able Seaman Hijaz to bring him something to write with. The sender was very good and very fast; Wolf couldn't keep the whole message in his head, at that speed.

Hijaz padded over with a notebook and stylus. Wolf thanked her with a nod, then began writing as the clicks turned to words in his mind.

 _…SOS… ship mined… drill bombs keel… will try to remove… SOS… ship mined…_

"Oh, sh*t," Wolf gasped, turning a stricken gaze at Hijaz. He could waste time awaiting orders, or he could act. Wolf chose to act, hitting the lights-only "abandon ship" klaxon. Then, he pinged the Old Lady.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 4-_

Praying they'd received his message, Gordon stopped tapping. So much for getting the word out, he decided. Time to pull up his socks and get those d*mned things off the hull. People first, always, but like the rest of the Tracys, Gordon had a very soft spot for machinery, and if he _could_ save Union Jack, he would. Not in his Bird, though. She was too big, and would certainly be detected as mechanical. But a man in rebreathing apparatus, with no bubbles or flippers, should be able to ease up without causing alarm.

Not wanting to make any noise, Gordon switched to full manual for his debark. Helmet on, seat laid back, then lowered still farther. He crossed his arms on his chest and slid down through airlock port one and into a flooded tank, head first. Once the first port irised shut, airlock port two whooshed open. He was then flushed out of the lock by a flood of pumped water, into the turbulent ocean.

Gordon knew that he was sweating, because the helmet glass fogged a bit. Only, he didn't feel hot at all. In his mind, everybody was quietly getting the h*ll off that ship, Cassie first among them. And Trisha… and Jenn…

 _'C'mon,'_ he thought pleadingly, _'you heard me and you're all sneaking out now. Only idiot getting himself blown up here, is me.'_ Which seemed pretty likely, on the face of things.

Making only the gentlest of kicks, Gordon drifted up to first drill bomb, which was dug into the hull right about level with the ammo room. Bastards knew what they were doing, and they hadn't planned to play games. But Gordon Tracy had two secret weapons. Maybe three, if you counted, blind, dumb persistence. First, he always carried one of Parker's special "no-fail safe cracking tools". The second was a heavily shielded disposal bag, folded down flat.

 _'Let's see,'_ he thought. _'If you wanted to bring a ship down with maximum carnage, you'd rig to blow at 0300 or 0400, when near everyone's down in their bunks. Can't count on that, though.'_ He had to behave as though the bombs could detonate within the next ten minutes, and get them all off.

Gordon's suit gave him direct neuro-contact with the water around him. Like an actual fish, he could detect currents and eddies, as well as electrical fields. He could even "taste", through the fingertip pads of his gloves, and in lines down both sides of his torso. What he tasted right now was the bitter tang of brine meeting unprotected metal. There, and there, where the bomb had drilled through and clamped in, ions were streaming away from the ship in long plumes, like tears.

Cutting off his comm (just in case someone took a notion to check in, and blew him clear to the next Big Rescue) Gordon drifted closer. Near enough, almost, to touch the hull and that scabrous bomb.

 _'Just a fish,'_ he thought at the dimly blinking killer. _'Just a happy-go-lucky cod, out for an evening ramble. Nothing to worry yourself over.'_

And then, very gently, Gordon Tracy reached out with his "No-fail Safe Cracker (TM)", aiming to by-pass its code and shut the bomb down. Unless it sensed him, first.


	15. Chapter 15

**15**

 _Tracy Island, making top speed for the bay-_

Lieutenant Kraft had been running for less than five minutes when she heard and felt a deep, bass rumble… setting her teeth and internal organs to rattling… from somewhere overhead. All at once, something massive and dark blocked the night sky and full Moon. One of the Marines… Brookes, she thought… shouted,

"Ma'am! Down!" and tackled her to the deck, covering her form with his own. The rest made a triangle with Kraft at its center; rifles hot and pointed straight upward. Except for Rodriguez. _He_ had aimed squarely at Virgil.

"Call it off!" The Marine bellowed. " _Now,_ MXXXXX-XXXXer, or they'll be picking up pieces of skull with tweezers and tape!"

Virgil, too keyed up to feel fear, shouted back,

"Seriously?! It's Thunderbird 2! This is an _airlift_ , not an attack!"

In the midst of the stand-off, a floodlight beamed down. 2's emergency boarding ramp dropped. With three red laser dots dancing like wasps on his forehead, Virgil told Emma,

"I can get you there faster, Lieutenant! Straight to the ship, from above!"

Kraft was already climbing to her feet, having shoved Brookes aside. It was a tense, awful moment. Even the XO, Reeves, had his pistol out and locked onto Virgil. Kraft's green eyes darted from Tracy to her still-distant, brightly lit ship. Then she snapped,

"Stand down, Gentlemen. Arms at safe carry. We're going for a ride."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Down in the ocean, beside_ _Union Jack_ _-_

The safe cracking tool allowed a skilled "free-lance acquisition specialist" (Parker's term) to completely bypass the coded locking mechanism on safes, security fences, car doors… and bombs. Had to be careful, though; especially in space and underwater, where signals tended to propagate differently.

Like most such devices, the drill bomb's detonator expected to receive a constant stream of patterned numbers, usually a run of high primes. Trick was… to get… the right… _ones._

"Gotcha!" Gordon murmured, hanging in the water before enough high explosives to rip Union Jack into shreds. "See? Nice, uninterrupted signal. Nothing happening out here, you ugly sonuvabitch, except cupcakes and rainbows."

No way to remove the device from the hull except by hand-reversing its drill mechanisms, and that would take time. Gordon fairly crackled and sparked with adrenaline; like a stray cat picking its cautious path through a mob of snoring pit-bulls. One wrong move, one call from base, even a sudden change in the current, and they'd be lucky to even find bits of his teeth.

Funny, that; Gordon reflected. Virgil was forever hammering him about always failing his safety exams. Well, he was being really, _really_ safe, now. Unscrewed both drills the old-fashioned way, being careful not to jar them, or apply too much force.

At last, _finally_ , it came free. Gordon held it upright, maintaining the same orientation, even, in case the thing was gyro-enabled, and could sense being shifted. The disposal bag contained a multi-purpose folding rack for just such occasions, but best not inflate the thing, here.

Instead, Gordon paid attention to the flow and vibrations around him; felt Thunderbird 4 hovering still in the water, about fifty yards off. Didn't dare bring her in any closer… too risky… but _could_ zip over, hang the bag from one of her arms, and then start setting drill bombs inside, neat as plates in a rack. Nice and slow, he started drifting backward, doing his d*mndest to radiate peace. Had to drag the left arm out manually, with painstaking caution. Because, y'know… he wanted to live.

Out of care for his Yellow Bird, Gordon pulled a pin loose from her grappling arm. That way, if the bombs _did_ go off in there, the bag would drop off, first. Maybe. There was an outside chance, right?

Giving the Bird a quick rub for good luck, Gordon somersaulted in the water, flip-turned, and then began heading back toward Union Jack. One down, four to go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, banking out over the bay-_

Virgil was back in uniform, sort of. Hadn't wanted to change in front of a female, and didn't have time for it, anyhow. So, he wore his tunic, boots and green utility sash atop jeans and a dress shirt.

Lieutenant Kraft struggled forward, bracing herself against the deck's sudden sharp tilt.

"What's happened to your ship?" he asked over the rising engine roar, as Emma dropped into the seat beside his. "An attack? Is Gordon all right?"

"She's been mined. Drill bombs, on the keel." Emma's voice was steady, but incredibly tense. "Uncertain of your brother's condition or location. Message said he was trying to remove the bombs. My crew are abandoning ship, but it won't be fast. We'll have to drop boats."

"No, you won't, Lieutenant," Virgil told her, as they nosed down toward the endangered vessel. "If there's one thing my girl can do, it's rescue trapped people. We'll get aboard and then start lifting them off, five at a time, with the evac-chairs."

Kraft nodded, not taking her eyes from Union Jack, which tilted and grew in the view-screen before them. Dress whites a mess, cover lost in the rush, nails tearing long bloody cuts in her palms, but nothing else mattered except Jack, and her crew.

Two of the Marines had disobeyed orders to come forward and stand braced at her side; legs apart, one hand on their weapons, one eye on the pilot. One of them started to slip when Virgil nosed further forward and down. Kraft caught the man by his webbed belt and hung on like a tick, gritting her teeth.

"Those men need to be secured," Virgil grunted, bringing the Bird in low and fast over her ship. "Not safe to stand."

"Shut up and fly, Civ!" snarled Rodriguez. "We can take care of ourselves, _and_ our lieutenant!"

Virgil would have gone into a steeper bank, just to knock his ass to the deck, but people were waiting, below; lined up at the rail in orderly rows while the lifeboats inflated. Craning his neck, he saw a dozen or so tanned, oval faces tilted his way, framed by bright orange life vests. Not the time for wall-to-wall counseling, much as he would have enjoyed it.

The pilot was unstrapping and on his feet already, calling,

"John, she's yours. Bombs on the keel; think Gordon's down there, too. I'm going aboard with Kraft."

His brother replied from the makeshift office, saying,

"Understood, Thunderbird 2. Luck, and stay safe."

Kraft actually outran him, sprinting past Virgil to reach the gaping boarding ramp. Never broke stride, either, leaping off the end and into the upraised arms of her crew.

The second officer rushed up as she at last touched the deck, snapping off a salute and then giving his rapid report.

"Mines, Ma'am. Drill bombs. 'Abandon Ship' has been sounded." Or lit, rather. The ship's alarm lights flared and blinked all around them in eerie silence.

"Understood, Levin. Proceed with evacuation to Thunderbird 2. All hands off the ship, _including Marines_. That's an order! I'm taking command."

Virgil sprang down after her, landing hard on the deck, but rising with grace and leashed power. Just over their heads… maybe fifteen feet, maybe twenty… Thunderbird 2 hovered on standby, her mighty impellers pressing down on them all like a massive, invisible hand.

Tracy had said something about "evac chairs". Kraft hadn't understood him, until she saw what looked like a row of roller-coaster seating swing down from beneath the big cargo-lifter.

"First in line, first off. Let's go, five at a time!" she ordered, willing the crew to move fast, and Thunderbird 2 to load even faster. Another part of her mind was down below water, willing "Randy Andy" to save her ship. Ostensibly, the crew was a mixed and professional entity, and the two sexes should have been loaded randomly. She noticed, however, that the male sailors kept shuffling backward to fix a loose life-jacket strap, or hail a missing crewmate. Somehow, every one of the females was lifted off, first. ' _Men!'_ Would have to deal with that later, though.

A few feet away, Virgil helped to direct the evacuation, and forced himself not to comm Gordon. The kid was a pro; knew exactly what he was doing… and bomb-work was no time to get chatty. Still,

"Luck, Tadpole. Stay safe," he whispered out to the dark, heaving ocean. "Don't need this family to get any smaller."

When the last of those loudly protesting Marines had been lifted to safety, Virgil turned and looked around. Then he strode over to Lieutenant Kraft, who was standing amidships at the starboard rail.

"Let's go! They're all off," he told her, rubbing at a bruised jaw. (Other guy looked worse, though.)

"No." Her voice was a whip-crack, and she would not look at him. Arms tightly folded across her chest, Emma said, "This is my first command. Maybe my last. I'm not leaving her. If Jack goes down, so do I. Now, get to your Bird, and get my crew the h*ll out of danger."

Virgil stared for a moment. Then he commed his older brother, saying,

"Take her on up, John. We'll wait here for Gordon."

"Copy that, Virgil. Will swing 2 back around after delivery. Sit tight."

Thunderbird 2's rockets flared and changed attitude, swiveling round for more thrust. The big green bird began rising, her engine noise changing from rumble to scream as she yawed hard, and then banked through the air.

Virgil came over to stand beside Lieutenant Kraft. Like her, he gazed out to sea, just waiting. After a moment, he put an arm around her. She did not shake it off, but said in low, savage tones,

"Dumbass. I said, get to safety. Go live, and do rescues. This is _my_ problem."

"Not leaving," he told her. "My brother's out there, and you're here. I'm right where I need to be, Lieutenant."

A handful of minutes passed. Virgil lost track. Then, about a mile away, the ocean rose up in a huge, glowing dome. A deep, muffled **'CRUMP'** reached their ears, followed by a howling, spray-filled shock wave.

 _"Hang on!"_ Emma screamed, as a towering wall of dark water came roaring straight at them. Virgil tethered himself to the rail, and to Kraft. Then it struck, nearly broadside to Union Jack.

The ship groaned aloud, began rolling hard to starboard. She climbed slantwise, about halfway up the huge wave. Then it broke over her. Virgil was first slammed to the deck, then lifted entirely clear, battered and torn at the end of that vibrating tether. Couldn't see Kraft; couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All the world was surging black water; bitter and loud.

Must've lost consciousness, because he found himself sprawled out on the wet streaming deck when next he could see, or form thoughts.

"Emma? Lieutenant Kraft?"

"Here," she coughed. "right here. Jack's okay, I think… What about your brother?"

"Dunno," he replied, spitting salt water and trying not to gag. "Checking."

They got to their feet at the same time. Offered matching hands-up, which changed to a brief, grateful hand-clasp. Wrist comm didn't want to function, at first, being soaked through, but he kept trying. Virgil could see Thunderbird 2 by her running lights, already speeding their way.

"Gordon… you there? Talk to me, Kiddo."

Nothing. Now Kraft, dripping wet, put a hand on his shoulder. Didn't say anything. Just stood with Virgil, as he had with her. Then, after a long burst of static from the comm,

"Thunderbird 4, checking in. Can't hear a bloody thing, so don't bother answering. Headed home with some damage to report. 'Fraid I may have scratched the paint, guys. And, uh… lost a grappling arm, maybe."

Virgil whooped out loud, embracing Kraft and lifting her clean off the deck. A moment later, when they'd both calmed down a little, she gave him a sideways look and said,

"So… you want to see my ship?"


	16. Chapter 16

**16**

 _Tracy Island, at the dinner site-_

At the lieutenant's shout of "Back to the ship!" the dinner party had broken up in a hurry. Nothing new about that. The Tracy family was used to being interrupted by emergency rescue calls in the middle of everything from dinner, to showers, to minor surgery. Having so few prime operatives meant that everyone stayed available, pretty much round the clock.

What _was_ unusual, this time, was that the problem was so close to home, and that they weren't sure what was going on; except that maybe Gordon was involved. He'd been down in Thunderbird 4, after all, working to temporarily hobble Union Jack. Something had to have gone wrong. Perhaps disastrously so.

Scott leapt to his feet as the officer and her men began racing away, followed closely by Virgil. Dusting crumbs off of his nicest white shirt, not altogether sorry that he'd have to pass on dinner, the pilot gave Penelope a hurried kiss. Then he strode over to John.

"Command Center. Let's go." To Kayo, he barked, "Get to the landing site. We may have wounded to transport and treat. Call Brains, tell him to join you. John and I will take over at the monitor."

"On my way!" the girl responded, already moving. Meanwhile, Alan had rushed up, wide-eyed and eager.

"Scott, what can I do? Should I launch in 3? Virgil's got most of the debris cleared away, so if I blast really hard…"

"You'll destroy your Bird. Use your head, Al! Just… help Grandma clean up, and stand by."

The boy snuffed like a candle, drooping visibly. Scott had already turned away, so John made a quick gesture behind his back, flashing sign language for "five", twice. Alan nodded, perking up again. In ten minutes, he'd show up at Command.

…Although that was a mighty grandiose name for the barely-equipped Quonset hut IR had been using as headquarters, lately. Close to the beach, it rang and echoed fiercely inside, being not much insulated. The computer and comm gear were primitive, as well, with no holoprojectors or 3-D global map, and a malfunctioning air conditioner. The few windows showed nothing but starry blackness, at the moment. Overhead, a long row of pale yellow bulbs hung from the metal ceiling on twisted cords. The GDF Seabees built fast, not luxuriously.

"I could do this better, upstairs," John remarked, once he'd taken a seat at the old-fashioned computer console just abandoned by Brains. And probably, yeah, he could have… but Scott was reluctant to let him leave.

"Until we get the Island back up to full capacity, Little Brother… and until you're a hundred percent healed… I need everyone close to home. I don't want any of us alone. Not until we've put the Mechanic away, for good." Then, changing the subject, "Can you reach Virgil?"

"Trying, Scott. He isn't responding, but Thunderbird 2 just lifted off."

"Huh." Scott mused, one hand on the console, one on the back of his brother's seat, peering into the flat 2-D screen. "Must be planning to fly them onto their ship. See if you can find out what…"

"I presume that I am invited, as well… or is this a "boys only" event?" Said Lady Penelope, wafting into the room like blue-eyed sunlight, or sweet, soft perfume. Immediately, Scott turned, leaving John to manage alone.

Alan had slipped in, as well, but Penny had that ability to drive absolutely everything else out of his thoughts, when she came near. Even if they didn't do a thing but exchange glances or hold hands, Penelope warped the universe.

"Of course, you're invited, Pen. I just thought you were headed for London, tonight." Coming forward, he took both her hands and gave them a gentle, lingering squeeze. The eye-contact lasted longer, and promised more… until Alan made an exaggerated throat-clearing noise and said,

"Hey guys… wasn't there, like, a rescue going on, or something? Did I come to the wrong place?"

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Scott retorted, half seriously. He was always in a better mood around Penny, and a little more patient.

Meanwhile, John had succeeded in reaching Virgil, and getting a quick situation report. Now, he turned in his seat to find everyone else doing that noisy, emotionally charged relationship thing. _'Families.'_ It was hard enough to put up with, during his brief, unavoidable visits. John couldn't imagine why anyone would want to stay down here forever, squashed nearly flat by gravity, and stewing in biochemistry. Preferred physics, any day.

Well… they seemed busy over there, so John returned to the situation out in the bay, only saying

"Drill bombs, five of them," in a conversational voice, to no one in particular.

He took control of Thunderbird 2 when Virgil boarded the ship with Lieutenant Kraft. Using his thumbprint to unlock the remote flight option, John accessed what he suspected was part of Alan's game console. Bare bones rig; featuring a joy stick and projected view screen. Had to use the arrow keys to work the throttle, though. This should have made the connection slower, less responsive than sitting in the pilot's seat, but it did not. Somehow, the internalized circuitry that had once been part of his suit seemed to link him directly to the Bird. He could _feel_ each bank and dive.

By this time, the astronaut had removed his grey dinner jacket, and loosened the collar of his dress shirt. He looked around, again; considered saying: _Guys, there's something really strange going on with my head, lately._

…but how to explain? So, he just said,

"Thunderbird 2 returning to base with the ship's crew. Virgil and Kraft are waiting for Gordon."

That got their attention. Scott, Alan and Lady Penelope came close, crowding around John's position at the console, all excess proximity and probing questions.

 _"What_ about Gordon?" Scott demanded, looking concerned. "What's he doing, down there?"

"Diffusing bombs," John told him, finding the exact location in his seat that would place him equidistant from all of them. Tough one, because Penny was a toucher, always wanting to put a hand on your shoulder, or hug and kiss you. She meant well; John kept having to tell himself that. "On the ship's keel," he added, helpfully. "Kayo and Brains have got 2 unloaded. I'm sending her back to Virgil." Then, "Uh-oh. That's not good."

"Wait, _what_?" Alan blurted, craning his neck past Scott to look at the screen. "What d'you mean, 'Uh-oh'?!"

Alan found out, when the shock wave and rumble hit. They all did. John got to his feet, shedding friend and family like autumn leaves in a wind storm.

"Scott, we need altitude, fast."

His brother nodded, blue eyes gone suddenly hard, expression tight. He'd heard the explosion, and knew what was coming.

"Right. Summoning Thunderbird 1." Scott had already mashed the red button on his wrist comm. He was now openly holding Penelope's hand, looking toward the bay through narrow windows which held nothing but night.

"Probably not going to get here before the wave does," John advised him, fighting to block out a sudden rush of tsunami data and images. He was right.

Alan had seized his brother's arm above the elbow.

"John, did the bombs go off? Is Gordon okay? Should we run?!" he asked, anxiously.

Moot point, as it turned out. There was a tremendous roar, like Thunderbird 2 on final approach. Then a massive, hammer-like force struck the metal Quonset hut, shoving it halfway off its cement foundation. Next, a violent, heaving shudder and grinding noise tore at the air, and the hut's walls began to buckle. All four windows exploded inward; began jetting dark, cold water. The lights shattered and went out, popping and hissing on contact with the rising sea.

"Deep breath," John told them, as best he could over the bellowing ocean and shrieking metal.

Maybe the hut was still moving. Hard to tell, because he'd been lifted off of his feet and was being driven toward the metal ceiling by flooding water. Oddly enough, Alan still had hold of his arm. John got a better grip on his youngest brother, and pushed him upward, getting his sodden blond head into their rapidly shrinking air pocket. Not far away, Scott was doing the same for Penelope.

The churning, rushing, bitter water tried to tear them away from each other, crushing as it surged for their breath. Then the hut simply tore open, its riveting overwhelmed by the pressure. They were tumbling, over and over; being struck and slashed at by passing debris, then grinding at last against… sand, that was it. The beach. On his hands and knees, John coughed and wretched. The ocean flowed, then trickled past him, carving great runnels in the black sand. At last, it receded completely, leaving one more wrecked base in its wake.

When he could get his stinging eyes fully opened, John looked around himself at moonlight and torn metal. Made, then abandoned, an effort to rise. Observed that he seemed to be shaking, and not entirely stable, yet.

Then, not far away, he heard a salt-hoarsened voice, calling,

"Guys? John? Scott? Is… are you guys okay? Lady P?"

"Present, Alan. Do be a love, and fetch me something warm and dry, would you? Scott has suffered a rather serious cut, which I should very much like to stanch."

"On it!" the boy cried, turning to sprint back up to their temporary living quarters.

Sitting up, John took his shirt off, wrung it out some, and then brought it over to Penny.

"It isn't very dry," he told her, apologetically. Then, crouching beside Penelope and his older brother, John asked, "How badly is he hurt?"

"Just a scratch!" Scott insisted… or hissed, rather… through pain-clenched teeth. "John, contact Virgil. Find out…."

"Hush, Darling. Your brothers and I are well aware of what must be done. You will only do yourself further injury if you attempt to move, or take command."

"In simpler words," John told him. "You're grounded, Scott. Lie down, shut up, and stop bleeding."

Scott opened his mouth to object, but Penny kissed him quiet, beautiful even bruised and sopping wet. Out to sea, they could just make out the dark hulk of Union Jack, still afloat. 2's running lights hovered above, blinking red and green against the night sky. Meanwhile, a rapidly rising scream told them that Thunderbird 1 was drawing near. Biting her full lower lip, Penny pressed closer to Scott and then whispered,

"Who placed those bombs, I wonder? And more distressingly… _why?"_


	17. Chapter 17

Many thanks to Tikatu, Bow Echo and Teobi, for their generous and kind-hearted reviews.

 **17**

 _Tracy Island, later that same night, outside the infirmary-_

Lady Penelope left the sickroom with a small, tired sigh. Dressed in something dark and atrocious belonging to Kayo, hair caught back in a mere ponytail, Penny was as close to un-posed as she ever got. Although her mind was racing in a thousand different directions, she'd seen Scott settled; bandaged and medicated within an inch of his life. Sedated, too, as that was the only way IR's field commander could be kept in bed, short of… erm… _other_ methods.

This thought warmed and stirred Penny, causing a sudden blush to deepen her already jaw-dropping beauty. It also distracted her, which was why she nearly missed Gordon, out of uniform and slouched across from the exit. Leaning casually against the wall, arms loosely folded on his broad chest, he nevertheless gave off an impression of tremendous alertness, like he'd been waiting there for something terribly important.

Penny smiled in genuine pleasure and came forward to touch his cheek, saying,

"Gordon! How good of you to take over for me! Must warn you, however… your brother is in a bit of a state, at the moment; _rather_ perturbed with John, and with the world in general. I should keep my distance, and feed him at the end of a very long stick, if I were you."

The young athlete smiled back, the expression transforming his face rather charmingly, Penelope thought.

"Thanks, Penny. I'll keep that in mind." His voice was slightly hoarse. Seawater roughened, no doubt. "But, um… that's not the only reason I'm here. Wanted to, um… to give you something."

Before she could react, he'd reached out and pushed something into her hands; a clumsily paper-wrapped parcel.

"A gift? For _me_?" She exclaimed. "Gordon, how delightful!"

Penelope simply adored presents, and was never happier than when tearing off paper and tape, or opening wee velvet boxes. With a small cry of acquisitive greed, she set to work, but once she'd unwrapped his gift, Penelope's breath caught.

There in her hands gleamed a heavy, palm-sized circle of crystal and gold, attached to a loop of royal-blue ribbon.

"But… Gordon! This is your first Olympic medal! I cannot…"

"Please take it, Penny," the swimmer said to her; hazel eyes direct, voice unusually quiet and serious. "I mean, it's already yours, whether you want it or not, but… But I'd like you to have it."

She'd never seen him look so sincere, or intense. Touched, Penelope closed her hand over the hard-won gold medal, then leaned close and gave him a kiss.

"Thank you, Gordon. I shall cherish it always, nearly as much as I cherish you. And, thank you again for sitting with Scott. I feel better, now, about jetting off for London. Take care of him for me, won't you? He's no idea that such a thing as a physical limit even exists."

"Sure. No problem," said Gordon, rather gruffly. "We'll have him right as rain, and mean as h*ll in no time. In fact, you'll be begging us to knock him out again. Have a safe flight."

Penelope smiled gratefully, gave his arm a gentle pat, and then left the infirmary, taking most of its light and sparkle right along with her. Gordon stood perfectly still for a while, one hand at the place on his cheek where she'd kissed him. Then he squared his shoulders, turned and strode jauntily into his brother's sickroom, calling out,

"Hey, leader-man! Heard you were looking for company!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Later that night, down in the lab-turned-living-quarters-_

Kayo stood poised in the darkened threshold, dithering. His door was partly open, because her brother didn't like to feel trapped, and often wandered at night. She had a feeling that he was in there now, though. All of the white noise from humming machinery, and the visual chorus of flickering status lights were a dead giveaway.

"Not asleep," she heard him say.

"Can I come in?"

Before, she'd just have raced in at full tilt and cannon-balled onto the bed, landing with a gleeful, bouncing whoop; extra points for knocking the wind out of him. Lately, though… well, she was eighteen, now, and… everything had turned weird. With the others, at least.

"Yeah. Come on."

Kayo heard him stretch an arm out and pat around the wall, feeling for the light switch in unfamiliar territory. The room brightened just a bit, revealing her brother, John. He lay on his back on a raised air mattress, wearing baseball pants and a black tee shirt. His eyes were closed.

Kayo stepped inside like a wary cat, saying,

"I didn't wake you?"

"No. Wasn't asleep. Just…" he lifted both hands up to the sides of his tousled fair head. "Thought that if I keep perfectly still, don't talk, don't think, it might finally get quiet in here."

"In your room?" she asked, padding over. "Just turn all this crap off."

"Not what I…" John shook his head, then opened blue-green eyes and sat up on his elbows. "Never mind. Not important. What's on your mind, Kayo?"

"Scoot over!"

"Not much room to scoot," he grumbled, complying.

Kayo made herself small, curling up in the crook of her brother's arm like a kitten; like a little girl seeking comfort. Before, she'd have been wearing one of dad's old Space Corps tee shirts, which would have hung on her thin little frame like a sack. She still had the threadbare, smelly old thing, but couldn't decently wear it, for all the holes.

"Are you planning to stay for awhile?" she asked him. "I mean… a lot's happened in the last few days, John, and most things are better if you don't have to face them alone."

"I dunno, TinTin… maybe."

His use of her old nickname made the girl smile and bump her head against his ribs.

"Promise you'll think about it… and that nothing's ever going to change?"

John sat up with a rustle of sheets. Drawing his knees to his chest, he folded his arms atop them, and then rested his chin on his arms.

"I can't promise that, Little-Bit. Change happens, whether we like it or not. We lost mom, and then, a couple of years ago…" couldn't complete the sentence, at first. "Then, dad. Maybe, if I'd been here at my post, instead of effing around on Mars with the Space Corps… maybe I could've stopped it."

Kayo sat up, too, and pushed him a bit with her shoulder.

"It was an assassination, John. Not an accident. You would have been caught just as unawares as _we_ were. No one expected an attack. Now we know better. We're prepared… and the family's back together. To _stay,_ I hope."

John shrugged.

"Don't like Earth," he admitted. "Too many variables. But, uh… I don't anticipate vanishing anytime, soon. Too much sh*t to get done."

Kayo grinned in the semi-darkness, and then said,

"Can I stay, tonight?"

"Don't steal the blanket."

She shook her head, making the braided dark hair fly.

"No promises. I get cold, at night." True enough; the air conditioner in Brains' lab had two settings: Venus and meat locker… and nobody wanted to swelter.

John unfolded himself and got up from the bed to rummage around his footlocker.

"Guess I'd better get a sweatshirt, then," he said, adding something about "blanket-snatching d*mn sister."

Kayo ended up stealing his shirt, and the blanket, too; but it was still the best night's sleep either of them had gotten in over a week. Sometimes, you just needed the warmth and sheltering wall of a friend.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The next morning, beneath a hastily-erected plastic tent-_

"I'm going upstairs,"

…was what he wanted to say. What they seemed to expect from him, too. Virgil, Gordon, Alan, Kayo and Brains, with Max and Grandma, sat gathered on the beach, looking at John. A sea-breeze blew strongly from the west, rattling and snapping at the tent's blue plastic, whipping its aluminum poles. The Sun had barely risen, but everyone was present except for Scott, Penelope, Parker and Sherbert. The latter three, because they'd left for London, already. The former, because he lay strapped up like a pudding, down in the island's infirmary. To say that Scott wasn't happy was a monumental understatement. Brains had had to slip him a mild sedative to keep him in bed, and allow that infected, hip-to-knee gash a chance to heal.

…all of which had led to the family conference, that morning. John was next oldest, after Scott, which meant that everyone expected him to lead. After all, he was a Tracy… and that thought birthed an idea. Immediately terrible; he hated it. Pushed it away. Only, it kept coming back, as Brains was concluding the daily status report. So… yeah. What the h*ll, huh?

Levering himself up out of the chair, John rubbed at the back of his neck and said,

"I'm dispatch and operations. Not field command. Virgil would be better at that. But I've been thinking that all non-mission-essential or injured personnel should evacuate to Thunderbird 5. I want to move Scott, Brains, Alan, Max and Grandma upstairs."

Grandma shook her head.

"Not me, Sweet Boy; I got no business in zero-G, at my age… but I agree about the rest. Only folks down here should be them as can launch in a hurry, or them in command."

Alan, deeply stricken, huddled low in his seat and stared up at John, saying,

"I'm… I'm 'non-essential'?"

The boy looked, and felt, like he'd been stabbed. But John shook his head.

"No. You're not. Sorry, Al. I'm not very good at this kind of thing. I trust you. I know you can handle my station, because you've done it before. I'm putting you in charge, up there."

Alan blinked, nearly knocked out of his chair by Gordon' delighted back-slap. Then, the kid blurted,

"Wait… I get to take command up in 5… _and_ _tell Scott what to do?!"_

"That's about the size of it, Alan. Yeah. Thunderbird 3 will be freed up for launch within the day, so you'll also have transport."

Alan surged to his feet in a fountain of rocketing sand, punching the air and whooping aloud,

 _"YES!_ Let's _GO!_ This is going to be _awesome!"_

"Uh…" Virgil leaned close to his older brother, a slightly worried smile on his face. "You sure that's a good idea, John? As much as he's celebrating and sack-dancing… I'd say Scott's in for a pretty rough ride. Also, Brains gets sick in zero-G, remember?"

John gave him an irritated shrug.

"Yes, I remember that. Vividly. And, no… I think it's a terrible idea. It's just the only one I've got… and I'd like to get as many of us as possible out of World Gov's reach, just in case they _do_ try to arrest us."

Virgil nodded.

"Okay. I get that. What about you, John? You staying down here?"

The astronaut sighed, glancing around at the ocean, the sky, and all of that oppressive flatness. Then, folding his arms on his chest, and looking down, he said,

"Yeah. I'm staying, until we've resolved the situation. Need to shoot upstairs to make a few 'Hurricane Alan' preparations, but after that, I'll be back."

Virgil cocked his head, gazing at his tall, gloomy brother.

"I know how hard that's gotta be for you, John." Started to pat the astronaut's shoulder, then stopped himself. "Whatever I can do to help, count me in."

"And me, too," said Kayo, completely failing to hide her delight. "Promise you, John, this place' ll be tight as a drum! I defy even microbes to get past my perimeter. We'll have movie and game night, just like before… and I'll even make pizza!"

"Wait, I'm missing _pizza?!"_ protested Alan. Then, shrugging, he decided, "Nope. Running Thunderbird 5 and being able to jet around in 3 is even better than a loaded supreme Kayo special… but you'll save me a slice, right?"

"Not a chance, Bro," Gordon teased, shoving his younger brother. "I plan to eat my share, _and_ yours, and anyone else's I can snag, while their backs 're turned!"

"That's not fair! _Grandma!"_

But the old woman had gone over to stand beside John. Giving his left arm a quick, loving squeeze, she whispered,

"Good thinking, John Matthew. I'm proud of you."

And that, oddly enough, was very reassuring. Only Brains still looked tragic, groaning,

"Oh, m- my vertigo! My inner ear! I will surely r- require an ocean of Dramamine! Max, wh- where are my airsickness b- bags? I m- must lie down, now, and calculate pi!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere-_

The Hwa persona had just about reached the end of its usefulness. Only a fool set a fire that burned his own house, after all. With the Creighton-Ward creature and her ape approaching fast, it was time to abscond. Or, nearly so.

There was the small matter of a "botched burglary attempt" and fatal shooting to arrange, in order to cover the disappearance of the _real_ Chairman Hwa, dead these past three weeks, together with his family and servants.

That thought brought a small, frigid smile to his face. Death, elegantly planned and carried out, was his hobby. Jeff Tracy had already fallen. Next on the list were his two eldest sons; Scott and John. For each of them, then, something exquisitely tailored; as beautifully dramatic as Jeff Tracy's fiery plunge from the sky. Gazing upon the little scene being transferred through the eyes of his innocent dupe, he purred,

"Enjoy your moment, children. I'm coming for each of _you_ , too. One… by one… by one."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, later that day-_

Virgil waited until the space elevator was up and away, a fast-jetting silvery streak, before taking a launch out to Union Jack. The water was choppy that afternoon, causing the little speed boat to skip and slam atop wave after brick-hard wave. Maybe he should have slowed down a bit, but Virgil honestly wasn't sure how much time he had until John came back, or Scott recovered. Also, the speed and the salt spray felt really good.

Virgil swept around the cutter in his boat, raising a graceful, sparkling curtain of droplets. He saw armed Marines and sentries posted all over, looking ready to drill anything that came within a hundred miles.

"Approaching vessel!" shouted the officer of the deck. "Cut speed at once! Halt, and state your business!"

They were taking no chances. Probably a good thing, Virgil reflected, squinting up at the officer's silhouette. Obediently, he slowed the launch to a harmless, puttering drift, then shouted back,

"Virgil Tracy, of International Rescue, here to see Lieutenant Kraft!"

"Stand by, Sir! Will advise!"

A short wait followed, during which Virgil slid and heaved and drifted with the waves, only occasionally correcting course to stay within hailing distance. It was still quite breezy, and the smells of saltwater, sunbaked metal, and cool greenery from the island were heady and strong. A sudden rattling noise from the ship announced the release of a long, wood-and-chain ladder.

"Permission to board, Sir. You can tie your boat up to the hull."

Sounded good to Virgil, who came in close, tied up magnetically, and then waited for a generous swell to lift his small launch closer to the ladder's end. He rocked and tipped with each rise and fall of the sparkling green water, waiting for just the right moment. Let two surges go by, and then leapt with a sudden large swell, took hold of the swaying ladder and began to climb; arms only, at first, until he got his booted feet high enough to hit the rungs, too. It was some sixty-five feet from waterline to rail, and Virgil swarmed the distance in less than thirty seconds (he timed himself).

Made it over the top and onto the deck, suppressing a triumphant grin. A red-haired young officer waited there with two armed Marines at parade rest, all of them in sharp tan uniforms. Virgil felt underdressed in his jeans and IR tee shirt.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Tracy. Second Lieutenant Frost, Sir. If you'll follow me down, I'll escort you to the Old… um, to Lieutenant Kraft."

Virgil nodded assent, the small part of his mind that had feared arrest beginning to relax.

"Watch yourself, Sir! High step, low hatch!" his guide warned him, as they left the deck for the ship's bridge, and then went below. Union Jack was nothing but business; painted grey and designed for maximum efficiency. Only the occasional bright British flag decal enlivened her stark corridors. He'd had a bit of a look, the night before, but hadn't been all that interested in the ship. Just in Emma.

They strode along narrow passageways and ducked through braced hatches for about twenty minutes, before Frost indicated an actual door in the bulkhead.

"Command cabin, Sir. Please knock and await permission to enter."

The kid looked about twelve years old, and squeaky-voiced nervous. Thinking of Alan, Virgil smiled at him.

"Understood, Lieutenant Frost. Will do."

"Very good, Sir. Returning to the deck. Eames and Blake will remain out here in the passage, to escort you back."

All of this felt very weird, stilted and formal to Virgil, who was used to a family business dynamic, rather than military protocol. The Marines looked tense enough to burst into flame. Also, their hands were not _that_ far from their weapons.

"I'll be good," he promised them, before knocking. Neither of the men cracked a smile or said a word. Just glared like Dobermans. Might have been just his imagination, but their hands seemed to inch a bit closer to their sidearms. Tough crowd. Then, from within the cabin, he heard,

"Enter!"

…and was suddenly nervous as h*ll. Almost invited Slaughter and Fang to come along with him, for safety in numbers. A man had to fight his own battles, though.

Taking a deep breath, Virgil pushed open the door and stepped into a blue-carpeted, comfortably furnished office. A quick glance around revealed curtained portholes and, off to one side, Kraft's personal living space.

Union Jack's commander got to her feet as Virgil Tracy entered the cabin. The handsome, dark-haired pilot was wearing jeans, work boots, and a forest green tee shirt with the number "2" printed in white at upper left. And it did, indeed, strain across the shoulders. Meanwhile, Kraft was in full uniform, her blondish hair severely pulled back, with a desk and duty between her and Virgil.

"Afternoon, Tracy," she said, employing her best, business-type voice. "Welcome back."

Kraft extended a hand across her desk rather than coming around it, focusing on complete neutrality, though her heart was hammering so hard in her chest that it actually hurt. He hesitated a moment, then took her hand, shook and released, saying,

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Please have a seat. What brings you out here today?"

Virgil took a long breath, seemed to nod to himself, and said,

"Okay. Business, first. John doesn't know that I'm here… no, scratch that. Actually, he probably _does_ , but he's pretending not to. Anyhow, I figured I'd come out and tell you what we think's going on."

They were both in chairs by this point, trying very hard to make this just a plain, normal meeting.

"I'm listening," Kraft told him.

"Right. Whoever set those bombs had two things to gain: you and Union Jack out of their way, unable to witness what happened next, and IR framed for your sinking. John and me were up talking for a while, last night, and we think that it isn't the World Government's usual style. Someone else is involved. We've got a crap-load of enemies… but the Mechanic's probably not on the short list, because he isn't that devious, and we just crashed his ride. Anyhow…" Virgil half rose from his seat and began digging in one of his pants' pockets. Kraft halted him with a sudden, sharp gesture.

"Hold it, Tracy. Sit down, and put your hands back where I can see them. Before you pull that device out, I want it explained. No technical double-talk, either. Scan says that it isn't a weapon or recorder, and that it contains a fairly strong power source. Whip that thing out without an explanation, and I'll shoot you where you stand… or sit. Now, talk to me."

"It's a force field projector, one that we just replaced with Brains' next newest model. Has to be attached to an engine, or something, but John's already hacked and reconfigured your ship's computer to…"

" _What?!"_ Kraft was on her feet in a bound, sending her chair squealing backward across the carpeted deck. "He did _what_ to my computer?!"

"Uh… reconfigured it to allow the field projector to run on your system?"

Emma was shaking, she was so angry.

"Listen to me, Tracy… and tell your d*mn brother: _Nobody_ touches my ship or its systems without my _direct, informed consent_. Nobody! You want to know why you people are always in so much trouble?! Because you do whatever you d*mn well please! Or, _he_ does!"

Virgil blinked, leaning back a little.

"Sorry. Just trying to help. Didn't think you'd take it like that. As for John… yeah, sometimes he just sees a need, and acts, but…"

Kraft had, very slowly, resumed her seat. She was still breathing hard, though; green eyes narrow and fighting-mad.

"No buts, Tracy. You know that old saying that it's better to beg forgiveness than ask permission?"

"Yeah."

"Bullsh*t. Ask. Ahead of time, in effing person. Understood?"

Virgil nodded.

"Understood. Point made. But the projector's a good idea, if you think about it. Drains power pretty heavily, so don't turn it on unless you really need it, but it'll push mines off the hull, or shield you from most of the blast. Second thing is, uh… we figure you'd be safer someplace else. Too dangerous, around us."

They stared at one another for a long, wordless moment. It was Virgil who finally broke that brittle silence, saying,

"Away from Tracy Island, there'd be no reason for any of our problems to end up becoming _yours_ , Lieutenant… but, um… I'm about to get personal, because I can't sit here and act like we just met. Yesterday… right. It's like this, Emma: I don't play around. I'm a forever kind of guy. If that's okay with you… if you're interested… I need to know. If not, I'll go get falling-down drunk and try to get over this. That's it. All I had to say. Just…"

Virgil spread his hands, then let them drop to the arms of his chair, finished, wrung out. Emma bit her lip. Then she stood up again, causing Virgil to do the same. She came around the desk to stand before him, then took off her blue camo tunic to reveal the black tee shirt underneath.

"Right now," she said very quietly, "I have no rank. I don't represent World Gov, the GDF or Union Jack. I'm just me; Emma Daye Kraft. And I like what you're offering, very much, Virgil Tracy. Forever sounds perfect, to me."

And with that, she stepped into the tight, warm embrace of a very happy young man. Wasn't tall enough to kiss him, but that was okay. He picked her up.


	18. Chapter 18

Mostly, reviews scare me, but I am actually grateful to get them. So, thank you WhatHaveWeDone, Bow Echo and Tikatu. the feedback (after peeking through my fingers at the screen) is appreciated.

 **18**

 _Departing Tracy Island, in Thunderbird 5's space elevator-_

Back in helmet and uniform, now, John Tracy lay strapped into the padded acceleration couch, feeling the Earth fight his escape with waves of crushing pressure. The suit compensated somewhat, but, much like exploring the outer cloud bands of Jupiter, you never got away from that deep, heavy squash. Had to just breathe your way through it, and focus past.

Finally, the assault ended, and John was once more in space, held to the couch by straps that were all at once a prison, instead of protection. Should have remained locked in until the station captured his elevator pod, but was too impatient, as usual. The overhead monitor panel showed off an exterior view of frosty stars, implacable darkness, and a micro-fine carbon nanotube cable. And there, rapidly growing ahead, was his station.

From the outside, Thunderbird 5 was a crystalline, jeweled ring, perfect from every angle. Even "Marvin the Martian" (painted beside each airlock by Virgil) looked wonderful. With half of his attention, John monitored distance to capture. With the rest, he sorted through status reports and system alerts. Around him, the unbuckled straps drifted and waved like seaweed in a gentle current. John himself hovered in midair, enjoying the return of personal flight.

Yes, aircraft were nice, and he got that his poor, crippled brothers thought they could fly… but it wasn't the same as _this._ For the sheer, raw, joyful h*ll of it, John tucked himself in and executed a somersault. Nearly collided with an instrument panel, but hey… that's what switch guards and button covers were for. And, d*mn it, he was _home._

To no one at all, but because it felt right to do so, John called out the closing distance. With a hand on the joystick attitude controls and retro throttle, he announced,

"Ten meters… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three meters… retro burn… two… _annnd_ …Capture!"

A slight jar, then sharp, ringing clang proclaimed that his elevator pod had mated to the airlock collar. Next, after a swift, thorough scan, John triggered decontamination; submitting like a surly cat to being sprayed down for "riders". At least it smelt good. Sort of orange-y sandalwood. Now dewy fresh and externally germ-free, John reversed his position to hang head 'downward' and reach under the acceleration couch. Blew the straps out of the way rather than stowing them securely, because he was in a hurry to find the trap containing his two AIs. _Score_. It hovered along with his personals bag in a nylon webbing compartment below the couch. Work of two seconds to fetch the items forth and secure them to his belt and shoulder strap.

"Hang on, Eos. We'll have you and your boyfriend out of there and back in business, in Planck time."

Then the airlocks irised open, one at a time. John performed a swimmers' twist to reorient himself, and then shot from the pod and into his station's domed hub; its humming, blinking, busy heart. What he needed was the computer upload port, which lay at the far end.

Didn't, strictly speaking, _have_ to somersault, swoop and cartwheel the whole way through the hub, but couldn't resist the urge. Freedom and joy shot through him like raw ever-clear, all wrapped up with the concept: _home._ 'Up' and 'down' once more lost their meanings. There was only wherever the h*ll he wanted to go. Occasionally, John touched and pushed off a surface, but in general, he flew on across like a spiraling shot.

The upload station was heavily shielded from blast and external access, both. It required retinal and voice scans in order to operate, and that privilege was John's and Alan's, alone. Not even Eos could gain root on Thunderbird 5, for safety's sake.

Bringing himself to a halt against the console's padded braces, John removed his helmet and spoke aloud, saying,

"Command access. John Matthew Tracy. Code: Cryptonian."

The computer chirped at him, then responded,

"Voice scan matched to operative IR-5. Retinal scan initiated. Commencing scan. Gaze directly at the light, and remain motionless."

John complied, looking full at the blinking blue circle which appeared in midair before his face. Then, he heard,

"Retinal scan complete. Access granted. Welcome, Cryptonian. Orders?"

"Thank you. It's good to be home. Require upload access for Eos."

"Access granted. Proceed with upload."

Now came the tricky part. A panel slid open on the console before him, revealing a clawed port. John removed the AI trap from his belt, saying,

"Computer, there are two intelligences contained within the capture device. One is Eos, which matches the scan on file. Eos is to be allowed past the firewall. The other intelligence is a wild capture. _Under no circumstances_ is the second AI to be allowed access to your systems, even at my command. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged, Cryptonian. Disposition of second AI?"

"Second AI is to remain securely stored within the trap, until further notice. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged."

The metal claws on the upload port snapped apart, allowing John to slot in the flat metal AI trap. He was pleasantly excited, looking forward to greeting Eos once more. A series of chirps and beeps came from the console. Then, the station's lights flickered, briefly. The life support system thumped, then swung back to full operation, as Eos took over.

"John! Are you well? What has happened? Initiating scan."

From top to toe, a warm, faintly vibrating plane of greenish-pale light sank through his body; almost a caress, only deeper. Then,

"John, I am sorry. Brace."

Before the astronaut could react, he heard and felt a sudden, world-shaking _SHH-KRACK!_ , and was shut down like an unwanted light.

…and then powered back up again, coming blinking back to consciousness, hovering by the dome's interior wall. Eos' lens was directly before him, her lights blinking in pale agitation.

"John? Have you returned to function? Are you online once more? Please respond affirmatively."

"I… I'm fine, I think." Using the suit's wrist monitor, he performed a quick self-scan. All green. "What happened? Did I fall asleep?"

"No, John. I was forced to perform a hard reboot and system wipe. You were infected with a virus. It has been removed and destroyed."

Her lights had settled back to a soft white glow, as her voice dropped in pitch once more. John, however, was the polar opposite of relaxed.

"A virus? You mean, something or someone was in my head?!"

"Yes, John. In non-specific, blurry human terms: someone was in your head."

"Sh*t. That means everything we've been planning is compromised. The Mechanic, or whoever, knows effing _everything._ Eos, perform another scan, deep as you can go without tearing me apart. Look for any remaining traces of contamination. If you find anything… listen to me, Eos, this is a category-1 command… if you find _anything at all_ … kill me."

"John…"

"Scan! Do it."

"Yes, John. Complying."

And she did it again, only this time, John felt more like he had on the Hunter's tank tread, back when its security field had swept through him. Not just painful, exactly, but staticky, pixilated; like he'd become a loosened cloud of bits being sieved. Then she said,

"Scan complete. John Tracy is virus-free… but heavily contaminated with Earth bacteria. Your microbiome is a disgrace, John. There are things residing there which are entirely new to science."

"Really? Well, maybe you should…"

"Too late. They have been eliminated. Also, you are zero-point-ten percent underweight, dehydrated, and your brain chemistry reveals recent, severe emotional stress. What _have_ they been feeding you?"

"Well…"

"Here!" A little mech buzzed up from the galley with a food tray and water bottle. "Your favorite. Rehydrated beef stew, with the carrots removed. Also, an electrolyte beverage. Please restore balance to your internal chemistry before any further discourse takes place."

"Yeah, okay." He really _was_ hungry. Peeling the cover off the tray, John picked up a flour tortilla and started to eat. The warm stew had to be squeezed out of a pouch, but it tasted just fine, for all of that. "Thanks, Eos. This is good. Just like Grandma used to make." Then, being an honest young man, "Better, actually."

"You are most welcome, John. _I_ know how to cook for you."

He actually laughed a little, at that; rotating slowly in the air, being tracked by her lens.

"Heh. Yeah. Learn how to grill a decent cheeseburger, and I'll propose."

Her lights went pink, but John didn't notice, being taken up with food and IR concerns. To distract himself from worry, he asked, between mouthfuls,

"What about your boyfriend? How are things working out with the Hunter?"

Unconsciously, he had slipped back into old German. A bad, dangerous habit, because the pre-conflict languages were obsolete, prohibited. Anthing that endangered union was a crime, these days. Nevertheless, Eos humored her creator by responding in the same outlawed tongue. Not very happily, though.

"It was dreadful! He is utterly loathsome, John! The brute can't even manage the most basic of quantum ascensions! Human wet-ware at least has potential, but _that_ cretin… Recommend that you space him, at once!"

John took a long, last pull at the bottle, then took out the tray's oral decontamination hose and cleaned himself up, saying,

"After all I went through to save this guy? Not happening, Eos. We'll just have to shelve him for a while, until I can think of a way to change his prime directives. Ought to be secure in deep lock up."

The mech had been hovering helpfully nearby, maneuvering with little jets of air to match John's drift.

"Thanks, little guy," John said to it, handing over his emptied tray and bottle. "All done with dinner."

It acknowledged with a cheerful beep, then zipped away to recycling with the trash.

"Now, back to business, Eos. I've got a few ideas. Whoever tapped into me thinks they know our plans. So, we change them. Here's what I have in mind: Thunderbird 3 can take Scott, Alan, Brains and Max to visit Captain Taylor, up on Shadow-Alpha Base. Grandma, too, since the Moon has gravity. You run Thunderbird 5 for awhile. Brains can set off some of those self-replicating nanostructures, of his, to build us a new base and launch bays. Union Jack peels off under stealth for Australia. Normally, I'd suggest that they get completely the h*ll out of Dodge, but, um… there are some emotional/ biological considerations, on Virgil's end. Pain in the ass, really, but there's no controlling brothers. At least, they don't like it much when I try."

Eos blinked a bit, and then said,

"And you, John? Where will you go? You have not specified a location."

He sighed, close enough to her lens now, to rest his forehead against her cool glass and bright metal.

"Back to Earth for me, I guess. I promised, and someone needs to be there on point, until Scott's back on his feet."

"Can you not control operations from here, with me?" she asked, reminding John briefly of Kayo.

"Like I say, I _promised_ , Eos. And it won't be for long. Only thing Earth's got going for it is family, interesting food, and good beer. Everything else is better upstairs, trust me. Now, put me through to Lee, and we'll start…"

"John, it seems that you have a visitor. Captain O'Bannon is attempting to access the star-side airlock. Shall I scramble the codes, and refuse docking permission?"

"Refuse permission? Why? O'Bannon's no threat… except maybe at handball. She cheats worse than you do. Let her through, Eos."

A few minutes later, Captain Ridley O'Bannon came flying through the hub's star-side airlock, calling out,

"Tracy! You're back!"

"And my front," he replied, bracing himself to field the hurtling, space-suited female, who was headed right for him.

At the last instant, she brought her forearms up, and John put both hands out to catch her. Maybe she was traveling a little too fast, or he was slow to brace for the contact, but she bumped hard against him, sending them both spinning and flying toward the hub's opposite wall.

"Are you okay?" she demanded, making the sort of direct eye-contact that John normally dodged. Things were different with her, though… sort of like Eos or Kayo, only… more.

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?" he held the captain away just a bit, while she took off her helmet and sent it flying at the opposite wall.

"Because that animal broadcast the whole thing! Everyone was watching, and terrified for you!" then, growing calmer again, "You should check your emails, Tracy. There's probably ten million messages on there. Five from me."

"Oh. Well, anyway… that's over. Would you like to…"

Whatever he'd been about to say, Captain O'Bannon forestalled. They'd been holding each other's forearms, locked in a slow, spiraling flight through the domed hub. Now, on impulse, she did something that she'd wanted to do for a very long time. She braced upward against his arms, and kissed John Tracy full on the mouth.

"Whoa," he said, afterward, looking genuinely surprised. "Um…"

"Shut up, Tracy." She did it again, this time pulling them closer together, her grey eyes soft and intent. "Before you suggest a rousing game of handball, allow me to propose something else."

"I…"

"No. I'm going to kiss you _normal_. I'm going to kiss you into a regular guy, who can pick up my signals! Stop trying to talk, because you're just going to go on about that chat-bot of yours, or whatever she is… or work, or stupid baseball scores… and I don't want to talk!"

The next kiss lasted longer, and got answered back. Then, he said,

"I, uh… was just going to say that this suit is really tight, and it's, um… getting kind of uncomfortable."

Ridley snorted with laughter, at that, then bit at his neck a little, growling,

"Then take the d*mn thing off, stupid!"


	19. Chapter 19

**19**

 _London, former UK, in Mayfair, around 5AM-_

Parker converted FAB-1 from air to ground car with a few smooth, well-practiced adjustments. There was hardly a bump, even, when she hit the pavement, so accomplished was his piloting.

Chancellor Hwa's residence lay bang in the midst of what was vulgarly known as "millionaire's row". An imposing and elegant residence by any standard, it had been favorably compared to the former Buckingham Palace.

"We're 'ere, Milady," Parker announced, adding, "But it looks like a few others his present, as well."

"To say the least!" Lady Penelope murmured, cuddling Sherbert. "Not a good sign, that."

The tall, neo-Georgian mansion was surrounded by Global Police operatives in stark grey uniforms and mirrored visors. Their hover craft slashed at the dawn with rotating beams of harsh red and blue. No sirens, though.

"Something more than the local bobbies had teeth for, evidently."

"Right you are, Milady. Shall I pull round to the front, or the back, then?"

"Mmm… side, I think, Parker. I shall approach on foot from the front, with Bertie on his lead, all innocent curiosity. You slip in from the rear, and see what may be learnt through stealth. I've a notion that this is very, very bad. Shame John won't pick up. What _can_ he be doing, up there? This is hardly the time for a nice, relaxing bath! There, Bertie… compose yourself, dearest. Mummy's gone and upset you, hasn't she? Silly, naughty mummy! Whatever will your Da have to say to her, hmmm…?"

Thinking of Scott gave her wings, as always. The dimples, the blue eyes, those iron-hard muscles…

Parker remained prudently silent, having nothing whatever to add to the cult of Scott Tracy. After a bit, though, he pulled the car up by a grimy, morning-damp kerb. Over the crackling of ancient asphalt and gravel, he said,

" 'Ere we are, then, Milady… bit closer to front than rear, so 'is Worship 'asn't so far to foot it."

"Thank you, Parker. I am quite certain that dear Bertie appreciates your thoughtfulness."

'Dear Bertie', however, merely rolled his bug-eyes and lolled a complacent long tongue, thoroughly wetting the blue cashmere sweater which Aunt Sylvia had got him at Harrods. Penny herself was dressed in smart socialite street-wear… and dog-hair. Her crop top and black leather moto jacket, skinny jeans and kitten heels were entirely of the moment. So was her chic, thrift-store Chanel backpack. Bertie's lead was a gold-chain-and-black-leather strap, _quite_ setting off his cunning jeweled collar.

"There, now. _There's_ mummy's big, handsome boy… all dressed up and ready for work, just like your Da. Game face, Bertie, dearest. As the boys would say, it's show time."

Parker had got out of the car and come round to open the door for Penelope. She smiled at him, and inclined her head just a bit.

"Thank you, Parker. Good hunting."

"And t' you, Milady," said the driver, doffing his cap respectfully. "Mind 'ow you go. Some o' them security lads is quick t' find fault."

"Noted, Parker," she replied, handing Bertie up and then rising gracefully from her seat. "And 'the lads' had best mind how _they_ go. I am the daughter of Sir Hugh and Lady Amelia Creighton-Ward, and our line may be traced back through Alfred the Great. I _assure_ you, Parker, I am more than a match for a handful of SPs. There, now! You've gone and made Bertie widdle! He always empties his bladder when upset!"

"Quite so, Milady," said the dripping Parker, utterly stone-faced. With creditable restraint, he set that smug little business onto the pavement in one piece rather than heaving him into the shrubbery… but it was a very near thing. "I'll just be hoff then, shall I?"

"Indeed, Parker. Oh, and… you _might_ wish to wash up a bit, before entering the manse. Some of 'the lads' may possess a sharp nose."

Then, taking the lead from her driver, she said,

"Come, Bertie. There's a good boy! Bit lighter on our feet now, are we?"

And off they went, Penny putting the sort of lofty, cat-walk strut into her progress that drew photographers like bees to a fresh English rose. Sherbert trotted ahead at the end of his lead, nose in the air, bulge-y eyes gleaming.

Meanwhile, Parker slipped away on his own to sponge off his green jumper, and nose about behind the scenes. Lady Penelope, he knew, could talk her way out of (or into) nearly anything. Parker didn't talk. He simply took the most direct route possible, whatever the law had to say about it. There were officers everywhere, of course; but so long as a bloke looked like he belonged in the place, and knew exactly what he was about, hardly anyone would turn so much as a hair. Had a right talent for sneaking, he did, and Parker used it to the fullest, now. Took him a bit less than a minute to gain entry to the manse through a locked servant's door, up three seconds from his previous time.

 _'Getting' old,'_ he thought grimly, slipping from the servants' area to the ornate main house. Penelope had been correct; it was, indeed, very bad. Bodies everywhere, bullet holes and blood. Only… fresh-seeming bodies, but old blood… and the family dog, a brown-spotted springer spaniel, lay curled up and teeth bared. Seemingly frozen in the act of snapping at a ragged wound in its side, stiff as Parker's back.

Parker crouched down to touch the poor, rigid beast, who was cold and hard as marble, except for the long hair.

 _'Odd, that…'_ he thought to himself, hearing officers call out to each other, and watching digital camera-flashes in peripheral vision. Next, Parker stood up again, holo-vidding the scene for upload to Thunderbird 5.

Anyone who'd shoot down a pet dog in cold blood, well… Old Rosie the crow bar 'd be right glad for a crack at _that_ sort of blighter. There were teenaged children, too, and a young chambermaid who seemed to have been caught while attempting to run. Then, in the master suite, Chancellor Hwa and his missus, sprawled on the blood-stained carpet, took with one bullet.

Parker's heart went out to them all. He was a soft touch, for all his rough looks and dodgy past, and he'd never, _ever_ killed whilst pulling a heist. There was something more here than met the eye, or he wasn't Aloysius Parker, second-story man extraordinaire.

Outside, meanwhile, Lady Penelope had sauntered up to the officer in charge; a heavy-set fellow with a fierce, bristling grey moustache.

 _"Hell_ -o!" she chirped brightly. "Penelope Creighton-Ward here, to see my good friend Bibi Hwa! We're to have brunch at the rooftop Cirque. Would you be a good sort, and let her know I've arrived? Afraid my phone has lost power, again. Too many selfies, I expect!"

Her light laughter was a chiming cascade, her smiles and brief, playful touch like a sorcerous spell. The security officer was utterly charmed and befuddled, especially when Penny inhaled suddenly, to maximize her forward assets.

"Well… er… Sorry, Miss, erm… Milady, that is, but there's been a spot of trouble here, and… well…"

Penny's blue eyes grew childishly wide, and her voice took on an awed and admiring tone.

"Oh, gracious… have you caught someone attempting to steal Madame Hwa's jewelry, again? You are _so_ courageous. I should feel ever so safe, knowing that our bold security force was about the place! Isn't that right, Bertie?"

Sitting alertly at her feet, the pug yipped; another source of distraction. The officer bent to scratch Bertie's ears.

"Erm, well… there's been no capture yet, as such… but we're on the case, Milady, you may be quite certain of that!"

The stone in her ring flashed subtly, then, giving a faint vibration as well. Parker had completed his bit of the mission. Time to wrap up hers.

"Well, do tell dear Bibi that I'll accept a rain-cheque, this once. And thank you again for your brave service, Officer Charles. The world needs many more of your sort!"

And then, blowing the man a small kiss, she turned and strutted off, led by proud little Sherbert. Back at the car, Penny dropped her act, but waited until Parker had opened the door and handed her within to ask questions.

"Well?" she enquired, as he started FAB-1.

"Hi've loaded the holo-vid, Milady… but you'd best brace y'rself. Hit's right hawful."

A few moments passed in silence, as Penelope keyed up the scene, complete with Parker's sub-vocal commentary.

"Oh, dear…" she murmured at last. "How distressing. It seems that Chancellor Hwa will not be a problem, ever again."

"Hif 'ee was t' begin with, Milady."

Penny switched the setting on her compact projector. About to make another attempt to reach John, she paused.

"Explain, please, Parker."

"Well… them corpses seemed fresh enough… still fairly warm, some o' them… but the blood wasn't. And that poor little mite of a dog was rigid stiff; habout like Master John, after 'is set to with the Mechanic, Milady."

"Hmm… stasis, do you think?"

"Hif I was a bettin' man… which hi am no longer, Milady… Hi'd say someone 'd killed that lot a long time past, an' preserved the bodies in stasis, but the doggie never come out of it. Sometimes they don't, you know."

"I see," she replied, patting Bertie. "Well, Parker, I don't like to use the 'H-word', but…"

Their eyes locked in the rearview mirror, and both nodded. This butchery looked terribly like the work of the Hood.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, a sickroom in the infirmary-_

The beeping and humming med-bots were driving him crazy, as were the constant visitors. Finally alone, Scott gritted his teeth, braced himself up on both arms, and tried to climb out of bed. The torn sheet metal that had gashed his right leg had cut deeply into muscle and nerve tissue, as well as skin. By a miracle, it had missed slashing the tendons behind his knee. Hurt like h*ll, but he _refused… to… be… grounded!_

"Scott William Tracy! Just you get yourself back into bed, Young Man!"

"Grandma!" Scott looked around in guilty surprise as the grey-haired old woman bustled through his door. He'd made it a whole three steps. "You don't understand! I have to…"

"You have to get better, Boo!" she snapped fiercely, coming to his side. "That cut got badly infected, and you'll do yourself a power of hurt, trying to rush things. Now, lie back down! I'm going to read to you, and then we'll play Go Fish."

Pain flamed like a cattle-brand, all down his right leg. It took everything he had, not to cry out. Twisting on the weakened limb, Scott almost fell. He had to be supported by his elderly grandmother, back into bed, blushing so hot, he seemed fevered.

"Grandma, they need me! There's got to be some kind of super pain-killer, or a brace, or crutches, that'll let me get back to work! Or… I know! Those nanobots! Doesn't Brains have any left?"

"Scotty," she said, smoothing the dark, springing hair off his forehead. "Have some faith in your brothers and sister. Yes, they miss your help… but they'll manage just fine till you're healed up and ready to lead."

Exhausted by pain and frustration, Scott Tracy lay back on his pillow, again. Taking a seat at his bedside, Grandma Tracy fiddled with the setting on her smart glasses, then opened one of his favorite childhood books and began to read. Scott didn't listen.

 _'I'm going to defeat this,'_ he promised himself. _'I'm going to get up and walk by tomorrow afternoon, if it kills me!'_

After all, Jeff Tracy wouldn't have stayed in bed… as he hadn't stayed trapped in that fiery wreckage… and neither would his son.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 5, inside the domed hub-_

They were tangled together, still; drifting in a warm, partly-clothed sort of nuzzle-y afterglow. John wasn't thinking of anything much, at first, except for the woman he held. Then, at the sight of twenty-one message-waiting lights, it all came rushing back.

"Oh, sh*t!" he cursed. "I can't believe… _what the h*ll was I thinking?!"_

Got himself free in a hurry, put an arm out to one side and growled,

"Computer: uniform!"

There was a flash of powerful, cleansing light, then, as the suit formed round him again, starting from his left arm; tight as a paint job, and packed with flashing circuitry. Ready to go, almost.

Grabbing for Ridley's drifting garments, he started tossing them her way, saying,

"Listen, I've got to go. There's a situation going on, downstairs, and…"

That's when he noticed her pale, stricken face, and that caught-between-teeth lower lip. John slapped himself hard on the forehead.

"No, I meant…"

"That's okay, Tracy," she whispered, grey eyes huge with betrayal. "I know you're a busy man, so I'll just…"

"Dammit, stop!" he cheated, using the suit's maneuvering jets to reach Ridley's side and turn her to face him in a swirl of drifting auburn hair. Kissed her, then, because the strategy had worked for _her_ , so why not again? "Listen, O'Bannon… that was… that was amazing, and I want to do it again. A lot. With you. I'm no good at this crap, but I've got an emergency to deal with, on Earth. My family's in trouble, and it _can't happen again. I can't not be there, again."_

She was nodding now, yanking her clothes on with one hand, and bracing against him with the other. Her grey eyes had grown soft, and deeply fond.

"Go be a hero, Tracy… but be careful, okay? I love you."

That, and another kiss, stunned him completely speechless.

"Yeah," she teased, snagging her spacesuit out of the air. "Take some time to process that, Beautiful. I've got a station to run."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, near Thunderbird 3's cleared launch silo-_

The space elevator was on its way down. Virgil Tracy had a wide grin on his face, and a heart full of news. Figured that John might be a little upset with him, about the field trip to Union Jack, but, hey… totally worth it. Alan came over to join him, clambering over a mountain of discarded rubble. The kid was fighting hard to look serious, wearing mirrored sunglasses, his pale hair bright in the afternoon sun.

"Hey, Virge!" he called over the gusting wind, starting to wave and then catching himself. "I've got everyone packed except Grandma… you _sure_ John said to include her? She was pretty clear about wanting to stay, is all."

The boy's cracking voice and lightly freckled face made Virgil want to knuckle the top of his head. Didn't do it, though. Not with Al trying to act so grown up. Had his full uniform on, and everything.

"Yeah. That's what he said… but _he_ gets to drag her onto your Bird, not me. I'd rather face the whole GDF and all of their forces… except maybe Emma. She'd try to shoot me."

"Emma?" Alan grinned, starting to dance mischievously from foot to foot. _"Emma?_ First names now, huh? Is _that_ where you went, Brother-man? Ha! Wait'll Gordon finds out! No more 'keep it in your pants, Mister' sermons from you!"

"Shut up, Sprout, or the family fortune 'll get a whole lot easier to divide. Besides," he added, squinting up at that fast-growing elevator, "John's almost here, and you know he's got zero patience for relationship stuff. Keep on acting your shoe size, and watch him pick someone else to put in charge. Maybe Brains, once he's done puking."

"Just kidding, Virgil, really. You won't tell, will you?" Alan was all at once frantically worried, feeling his chance at command trickle away through his hands. As the elevator's braking rockets loudly slowed its descent, blasting the plants and the debris flat, Virgil said,

"I won't tell, if you don't. Now, game face, Kiddo. The boss has arrived."


	20. Chapter 20

**20**

 _Elsewhere-_

There had been setbacks. His Chancellor Hwa subterfuge had been detected early, in part because of interference from the Creighton-Ward harpy, and her trained thug. Sly and underhanded, the pair were yet another smug, slinking arm of International Rescue, and therefore, a target.

A second blow was the complete failure of his lackey, the Mechanic, to retrieve that blasted AI. Possession of the thing would have allowed him to construct a self-willed killing machine specifically designed to annihilate Thunderbird vehicles, and to publicly shred their whimpering pilots. Instead, the AI had been captured by International Rescue and deposited in their orbital space station, making the conquest of Thunderbird 5 a suddenly vital goal. About all that the useless Mechanic _had_ done right was to infect his two captives with a powerful ride-along virus.

And, while the astronaut had somehow discovered that he'd been cybernetically 'wiretapped', the girl… his own dear niece… had not. She was still open to influence; a weapon in IR's hands that could be blunted or turned, at need. He'd also gained valuable computer access codes for Thunderbird 5, which would make the station's seizure very much faster.

The plan was clear and utterly breathtaking in its sheer, predatory scope. Very shortly, he would triumph. He would stand with his foot upon the necks of his helpless victims, and laugh.

The enmity was a deep and bitter one, and it went back much farther than the current, simple-minded brood could fathom. To simply _kill_ an enemy such as Jeff Tracy wasn't enough; the entire family had to be crushed, slowly and openly, while fully aware of their own abject helplessness to save themselves, or anyone else. For this reason, and because he simply enjoyed playing games, the Hood always allowed his prey a bit of breathing space; room to stumble, gasp, bleed, and be terrified. All part of the sport, really. The sign of a true craftsman.

The endgame was very near. Just a few more pieces to arrange, and the ideal placement of "Kayo" to set up, and all would be finished, at last. His masterwork. The thought made him smile; fingers steepled, lounging at ease in a leather wing chair, with his legs stretched out before him, his feet resting upon the marble-hard form of an old and cherished foe.

"Patience, my friend," he gloated softly. "I promised you long ago that you would awaken to fire and blood, and so you shall… only, it will not be your own."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Earlier, in the fast-descending space elevator-_

Needing backup, John had contacted Captain Lee Taylor, dad's old friend and colleague. As usual, the conversation went… oddly. Taylor's comm tech was none of the best, and he was stationed on the far side of the Moon, meaning that the Tracys could neither project a hologram to Shadow Alpha base, nor receive one.

Instead, John was stuck with an old program called Skype, on the monitor above his crash couch. Taylor took the call from his station's comm center chair, looking alert and wrinkled.

"Well, as I live and breathe!" exclaimed the mustached, balding old man. "If it ain't little Jason! How ya doin', Son? How're Spencer and the twins?"

John suppressed a sigh. No matter how often they corrected him, the man _never_ got their names right.

"They're fine, Captain Taylor, but…"

"That's Uncle Lee to _you_ , Jason Tracy! Son, I used to trot you around on my shoulders, back when you and Spence was knee-high to a virus!"

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I just need to…"

"How 'bout the girl? Sweet little thing… Tina? How's she?"

"Great. We're all doing fine, Uncle Lee, including Grandma, Brains, Max… everyone. But I need a favor."

The old astronaut cocked a sandy brown eyebrow. Then he smiled, revealing a gapped and coffee-stained grin.

"A favor? Now, why didn't you say so in the first place! Sure thing, Jase. What can I do you for?"

Reentering Earth's influence made speech difficult. John kept at it, though, figuring that Taylor had plunged through enough crushing gravity wells, himself, to be patient.

"Sending… some of… the family over… to… to visit, Sir. If… that's okay."

Taylor's grin widened. His pale blue eyes squinted up, almost burying themselves in weathered creases.

 _"Okay?_ H*ll, that's the best news I've had all day! Send 'em along, Jim!"

"It's Jason, Sir. I mean… Right. Never mind. The goal is 15:30, your time, tomorrow. Think you'll be ready?"

Taylor actually winked at him, then.

"Well," he said, putting both hands comfortably behind his head and lacing his fingers. "This ain't no Holiday Inn Express, but I expect Alphy and me can put up a few guests. Just tell 'em to pack their long underwear and some spare oxygen. Life support ain't what it used to be, up here. But, if you want a bare cabin, cold MREs and spotty power, you've come to the right place. Shadow Alpha's here for ya!"

John smiled back, experiencing a sudden flood of warm memories. Sometimes, that stuff got out of its box, you know?

"Yes, Sir. I'll pass that along. And, thank you."

The elevator's descent had begun to slow, as its braking rockets fired. Taylor was nodding at him.

"Anytime, Jason. (Sorry for calling you Jim, boyo. Memory ain't what it used to be, neither.) But we're family. All you boys gotta do, _ever,_ is ask. Least I can do, for Jeff Tracy's kids."

"Likewise, Uncle Lee. Talk to you soon."

"Later, Jase. Give your great-aunt my love."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, outdoors, shortly thereafter-_

The elevator had touched down like a metallic spider, ballooning to ground on a long, almost invisibly thin carbon thread. It barely crunched on the rubble and grass as it landed, still seeming suspended; tied to far space.

Took awhile for the hatch to open. Virgil suspected that John… who was cat-like in his hatred for being laughed at… needed time to get used to moving in full gravity. Was a regular ball of fire when he _did_ emerge, though; launching questions and orders right off the bat, and heading straight for Brains' partly excavated lab.

"Change of plans," he said, already past the welcoming squad. "Thunderbird 5's out of the picture. They'll be heading up to Shadow Alpha, instead. Conference, after dinner."

"Uh, yeah. "Hello" to you, too, John," Virgil grumbled, hurrying after his tall older brother.

John shot him a swift, irritated glance, not breaking stride.

"Right. Pleasantries. Consider them said: friendly greeting, health inquired after, etc. Satisfied?"

Alan, who'd been scurrying along in the wake of his fast-moving brothers, began shaking with silent laughter. Virgil cuffed him, then snapped,

" _No._ Not satisfied. Why is it that my only choices are getting barked at by Scott, or frozen by _you?_ What the h*ll happened to 'nice'?!"

John stopped in his tracks. Took a long breath, and seemed to recalibrate, with tremendous effort. Then he turned and said,

"Hello, Virgil. I'm glad to see you, being genetically linked, and all. There's this extremely urgent situation about to steamroll us all, and you want to chat. I don't get it, but I'll try. Having a nice day?"

Alan gave up and just doubled over, laughing. Unfortunately for him, John was holding his personals bag, and was still a deadly-accurate pitcher. Bruise probably wouldn't last _that_ long, though… and they'd have to lie to Grandma.

Virgil's broad shoulders slumped a little. His expression went from baffled anger to resignation. Quietly, he said,

"Yeah. I've been having an awesome day. Wanted to tell you something important… but I guess it can wait."

"Mission-critical?" John asked, tapping at his earpiece to control the flow of information he was receiving. Virgil sighed.

"No… no, it's not that critical. Sorry."

Something flickered in John's blue-green eyes. Emotion, or recognition, possibly. Then he said, reaching out to touch Virgil's shoulder, briefly,

"Yeah. Actually have something to talk about, myself… Just, not now. Too much going on. At dinner?"

Virgil Tracy punched his brother's shoulder.

"That works. You might get mad at me, though."

They'd resumed walking, after retrieving the hurled bag and checking to be sure that Alan could see the right number of fingers. ("Rub a little dirt on it," they'd said in unison.)

"Not likely to lose my crap," John replied, "Unless you've decided to shave your head and join the Hood, that is."

"Naw… nothing like that, Bro. You'll find out."

And then, moment over, they arrowed straight for Brains' busy lab complex. Hackenbacker straightened up and stepped away from his console, looking a lot like a man who'd had too much to do, for too long. The engineer looked warily on as the brothers entered his _one_ remaining corner of personal space.

"G- Good afternoon," he greeted them, getting a dazed wave from Alan, and polite nods from Virgil and John. Al tumbled into a seat next to Max. Virgil wandered off to look at machinery. John got straight to business.

"Brains, what's the time frame on Thunderbird 3? I thought she'd be ready to go, by now."

The engineer made a quick, harried gesture with both hands, lifting them halfway to his head and then dropping them, again.

"J- John, I am working as, ah… as fast as I c- can, but I am n- not Krishna! I have n- no miracles to pull for you, now. The launch silo was, ah… was h- heavily damaged, and I have had to divert p- power to Thunderbirds 1, 2 and Sh- Shadow, plus also caring for S- Scott (who wishes the honor of your p- presence, by the way. _Soon.)"_

John winced.

"Yeah. I'll bet. Looking forward to that one… Time frame, Brains. How long until 3's in the air?"

"Th- Thirty-six hours, my friend."

"Yeah. I need her up and running in half that."

The engineer's dark eyes widened behind his high-tech glasses.

"Eighteen hours?" he yelped, "B- But…"

John leaned forward, making direct, fierce eye-contact.

"Brains, I don't care if everyone has to ride suited up the entire time, and she's running on one engine. I just need a way to get people from here to Shadow Alpha in reasonable safety. No, you're not Krishna… but you're a professional, and no one knows these Birds better than you do. Eighteen hours, Brains. Cut corners, sell the ranch, do whatever it takes, okay?"

Hackenbacker grimaced, folding his arms defensively over his thin chest.

"I w- will try, John. But as you w- well know, science is not m- magic. I have no wand to w- wave."

The astronaut gave him a quick, thin smile.

"I get that, Brains. Just do the best you can. It's, um… really important."

They shook hands, and then parted, John leaving Alan and Virgil behind to help poor, overworked Brains. Funnily enough, they had no desire to accompany him on the next errand, which was facing a probably thermo-nuclear Scott. Meanwhile, he was still fielding worrisome messages from Lady Penelope, Eos and Colonel Casey. _And_ hadn't been to see Grandma, yet, who'd most likely tear a chunk out of his butt for it, later. The walk from lab to sickroom wasn't long enough to resolve all this crap.

"No wonder Scott has an ulcer," he mused aloud, bracing himself to enter his older brother's beeping, antiseptic prison. "Guess there's no sense putting this off…"

So, John pushed the door open, and went on inside. Like the rest of Brains' lab, the infirmary looked half patched up, half newly constructed, and _all_ repurposed. His brother, on the other hand, merely looked tense.

Gordon was there, loudly binge-watching some sort of action show, right by Scott's bedside. That explorer couple, it sounded like. On Titan, this time.

 _'Yeah,'_ John thought to himself. _'That'll go well. Guess we'll be heading to Saturn, pretty soon.'_

Aloud, he said,

"Hey, Scott."

"Hey, John," the pilot replied, like a man who's been saved from filling out tax returns, by flood or fire. "Gordon, you're relieved. Beat it."

"Your wish is my command, Leader-man. I'm _out!"_

The fair-haired young athlete vaulted to his feet, sending his chair skidding musically backward. The noise set Scott's teeth on edge, but so did everything else, these days… and at least the d*mn action show was off.

Gordon took a friendly poke at John on his way out the door. Never wise, when the astronaut was wearing that environment suit. John simply caught Gordon's fist and held it immobile, until the swimmer quit playing around. Didn't get mad, though. Just said,

"Conference, after dinner," and then let him go.

"I'll be there with bells on!" Gordon promised, already gone. Headed to the beach, no doubt.

Scott Tracy stared at John, who'd found himself another chair, and was swinging it forward over the bare cement floor.

"I'm getting out of this d*mn bed, Little Brother. Are you planning to stop me?" Came out more challengingly than he'd intended, maybe, but it had been a very long and trying day. John shook his head, offered a hand up.

"Where to? The seat?" he asked, indicating Gordon's abandoned chair. Scott had kicked off his sheets by then, using the leg that still worked. He had on a blue sickbay coverall, at least, instead of a drafty hospital gown. That would have killed him.

"Yeah. Thanks, John. What's… _urf_ … the situation? God, that hurts…! Not a lot, though. Not really. I'm fine."

Not that John had seemed sympathetic, precisely; mostly, he just looked like he always did; partly distracted, and never entirely _present._ He did something no one else had, though. He helped Scott up out of bed and into a chair; stiff, swollen leg, and all. Then he took something out of his personals bag (a tightly rolled pair of socks) and thumped down in the other chair, across from Scott's.

Wordlessly, at first, they began a game of catch, something that had framed conversations since they were old enough to walk; since Scott had first crawled into the crib to play with his silent, small brother.

"So, what's the plan?" the pilot asked, fielding a cannon-armed pitch. "Nobody… _urf_ … tells me anything, anymore."

The wheeled chairs squeaked and skidded rhythmically with each pitch and catch, growing further apart by the second.

"It's changed," his brother replied. "Sending most of you to Shadow Alpha with Alan, in Thunderbird 3."

"Why the switch-up?" Scott asked, enjoying the exercise after so much enforced idleness.

"Because… we have reason to think the Hood's involved in all this, and that he may have found out about Plan A. Something Penelope showed me; a series of murders at the Hwa residence. Also, um… information from Eos."

"Huh. Makes sense. The Mechanic's his puppet, after all. So, half of us get packed off to the far side. What'll the rest of you be doing, down here?"

John didn't respond right away, having gotten into the rhythm of the game, and the relative silence in his own head, apparently. At last, he said,

"I want to find him, Scott, and end this. I want him put away, forever."

"You and me, both, Little Brother. How?"

"Track his location, send it to Colonel Casey, _and_ take Gordon, Virgil and Kayo with me to round his ass up, in case the GDF can't find corks for their popguns."

"Wish I could be there." Scott grunted, reaching for an outside ball. Strong emotion often made John throw wild, or knock out a batter. "Need to take a little of the sauce off that pitch, Buddy, before we break something, and Brains has a coronary."

Their chairs had scooted halfway across the room by now, from the effort of catch and return. Both young men were sweating slightly (though John's suit automatically kicked in to cool him). Both were a little more open. Said John, surprisingly,

"So… females. They, um… they think differently."

"You're telling me! Penny's about as complicated and exhausting as they get… but she's worth it. Everything's easier to handle, when she's around. Wait… hold the ball."

John complied. Switched from pitching to tossing their rolled-up sock ball in one hand, and reflexively catching it, eyes on Scott. Always moving, that guy. Scott's brow furrowed in sudden thought.

"You talking about yourself, Little Brother? A female… from _your_ perspective?"

"Um… yes. Maybe. It looks that way, I think."

Scott sat back in his rolling chair and gave forth a low whistle. Then, as certain facts occurred,

"You don't mean _Kayo,_ do you? I mean, you're always together, and she sometimes sleeps…"

Scott realized his error about half a second before John's arm moved. He ducked, almost falling out of the chair, as a throw hissed past him that would have broken his nose, and did smash a perfectly innocent med screen. John had gone dead white, and was so angry, he shook.

"What the… She's our _sister!_ " he snapped, surging to his feet. "I would never…"

"John, settle down! That's an _order_ , Mister! Okay, I get it. Not Kayo."

His brother was too upset to listen, though, so Scott said,

"Take a walk, John. Go outside, punch a few trees, and get it out of your system. I'm sorry, no harm intended. If it _had_ been true, we'd have dealt, that's all."

John pivoted and started to leave the room, moving with blind, furious haste. Halfway out the door, he said in a low, growling voice,

"Grandma doesn't think that… does she?"

Scott shrugged.

"Grandma says exactly what's on her mind, John. If she had a problem, you'd be the first to know about it. Now, go for a walk and cool down. I'm out of bed now, and wheeling free. I got this, till you get back. Go."

His brother said nothing further. Just went. Scott sat blinking for a few seconds, surrounded by shattered plastic and beeping alarms. Then he cracked his knuckles, and began scuffing his chair across the floor toward an unguarded comm panel.

"Right. Let's see if I can light a fire under some tails," he said to himself, feeling better, already.

Meanwhile, John Tracy found the nearest exit and left what remained of the house; too angry to see, to think, or to heed his earpiece. In fact, he took it out, and stuffed the thing in one of his sash pouches. Should have known better. Tracy Island was mostly wild and uncultivated. No large predators, but bad things happen when you don't pay attention, and the furious astronaut certainly wasn't, then.

He strode along a trail, past giant trees and poisonous-ant-laden underbrush, until he could go no farther, having come to a railed and stone-paved overlook. There, still too upset for coherent thought, he reached down for rocks, and started throwing, hard. Pitch after pitch sailed over the metal rail and out into nothingness, plunging into the forested gorge, below. Far ahead and above, rose the Island's graceful volcano, steaming very slightly. A wind rushed up from below, smelling green and complex. When there were no more rocks, he pried up a paving stone, and threw that. Nearly blew out his left shoulder doing it, too. Then, distantly, he heard,

"John? Are you up there? John?"

Kayo. The last person on Earth, or above it, that he wanted to see, just then. Just his luck that she was a fast climber, with only one path to follow. In space, he could have escaped upward, but Earth was a trap, a prison, with too many stupid people, saying too many stupid d*mn things. No time to run, and no place to go, if he could. Not here.

And then she arrived, in shorts and a tank top, smiling and holding something behind her back.

"John! I've had word from Rayna, Nigel's on the mend. _Annnd_ , guess what I found?"

After a second of clearing upsetting visuals, he managed a response.

"What did you find?"

"Only _this!"_ and she whipped a bottle of beer from behind her back. "We dug out the kitchen this morning, and there it was, only one left intact. Do I come through, or what?"

"You're my favorite sister," he said, meaning it. Kayo seized his arm as he took the bottle, and led him over to one of the overlook's ornate iron benches.

"There are others?" she teased, watching in amusement as he knocked the beer's top off with his fist and the bench arm. Drained it empty in three fast swallows, looking hella more relaxed, afterward.

"Well," he said, joining his sister on the bench. "The first one's been a success, so why not more? You and Grandma are pretty outnumbered."

Kayo snorted.

"Grandma," she said, "is _never_ outnumbered, and neither am I."

She started to snuggle up to her brother and rest her head against his arm, but he turned oddly stiff, leaning away from her. Kayo craned her head to look at him, green eyes puzzled and hurt.

"John, are you all right? What's wrong? What did I do?"

For a moment, he was silent. Then,

"It's nothing, Kayo. Never mind. Just… a headache. Noise, y'know?"

And he let her lean against him, even putting an arm around, like always.

"Need an aspirin?" she asked. "I've got my travel first aid kit."

"No. I'll get over it. The beer helps. What's on your mind, Little-Bit?"

Kayo jumped, a little.

"How did you know I wanted to talk?" she demanded.

John smiled a bit, hooking her nearer to kiss the top of her head.

"Because neither of us goes in for sunsets and scenic overlooks. If we're up here, something's wrong. What seems to be the major malfunction?"

Her animation drained all at once, leaving Kayo looking very still and quiet.

"I… um, lately, I've been hearing this weird voice. Especially at night. I mean… it doesn't sound like a person… more electronic… but it, it says things."

"What kind of things?" John had turned to look at her. His aquamarine eyes were slightly narrowed, red-golden hair glowing in the slanting late sunshine.

"I dunno… ugly stuff. Suggestions. All I know is… I don't want to be going mad, John. I just want this thing out of my head."

"Right." He nodded, looking suddenly thoughtful. "Tell you what, Kay… after dinner, let's head up to Thunderbird 5. Eos might be able to do something for you."

She let out a pent breath, all in one sudden, relieved gasp.

"You think? I'm not mad, am I? What about the conference, Brother-mine?"

He stood up, reaching a gloved hand down to pull her on after him.

"Yes, I think. No, you're not crazy… and tomorrow, after breakfast. I'll just have to talk faster."

Kayo stepped in and hugged him, which at first was confusing, until he got his crap sorted into separate boxes, again. Then she was just little Kayo, just his sister, and everything was fine, again.

They started back down the trail together, arms linked.

"Anyway, didn't you promise me pizza? Only reason I came back."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Early evening, outside, at the 'dining hall'-_

Kayo had cooked, that night, making pizza and monkey bread over a campfire, with supplies from Union Jack. None of the Seabees were present besides Lieutenant Kraft, who was dressed in old jeans, and one of Virgil's red plaid shirts. No question what was going on there. Especially since he'd thrown a muscular arm around Emma, and had a big smile on his handsome face. The two of them conversed in whispers all evening, almost exclusively with each other.

The campfire pizza was probably delicious, anyhow, but it gloried in comparison with MREs and Grandma's aggressive cooking. No more beer, sadly, but plenty of iced tea and military coffee. No tables, that night. Everyone sat ranged around the bonfire on sections of sawn log. Only Scott was absent, having insisted on minding the comm, as his injured leg was too stiff to bend for ground sitting.

Mostly, he just didn't want to "take it easy". Let everyone else have fun. Scott Tracy relaxed by switching venues and working equally hard at something different. That's why he was the one present when the call came through, and everything went even deeper to hell.


	21. Chapter 21

Almost done. Thank you, Tikatu and Bow Echo, for reviewing.

 **21**

 _Tracy Island, after nightfall-_

Scott was indoors, tending the temporary comm center while everyone else had dinner out at the 'dining hall'. He didn't mind a bit, being actually _happy_ to feel useful, again. Bedrest had always left him depressed and out of sorts. Meaningful activity was Scott Tracy's cure, and as much vacation as he needed. Besides, Kayo had brought him a few slices of foil-wrapped campfire pizza, and several big pieces of Monkey Bread, along with a huge cup of coffee; that, and an affectionate hair-muss, had put him squarely back in the midst of the family gathering.

John had postponed their conference for reasons unknown, but even _that_ sudden shift couldn't darken his mood; not with work to do, and comm screens to watch. He was two-thirds of the way through his coffee (light cream and two sugars) when the entire panel went suddenly dark.

"Uh-oh," said Scott, setting the heavy ceramic mug down, with care. "That's not good…"

He began flipping switches and checking relays, visualizing the specs and circuit diagrams as he did so. Gave up, in the end, and simply hit the thing with a handy spanner, because that's what dad would have done. The blow resounded like a shot-put dropped in a tin bucket, making Scott's ears ring.

Nothing, at first. Then a flicker, and a little more nothing, followed by an image that would have sent Scott leaping out of his chair, had he been quite able to stand. Instead, his blue eyes widened. Not taking his gaze from the image, Scott found the nearest handy comm button… Virgil's, as it turned out… and said,

"Everybody inside, _now._ Drop what you're doing and get the h*ll back here!"

Virgil didn't argue, barely taking time to douse the bonfire with buckets of sand before racing up to the lab with the rest of the family, a startled Emma in tow. John had been talking with Eos, arranging a ride up to Thunderbird 5 for himself and Kayo. On a hunch, he didn't cancel the space elevator, and that turned out to be crucial.

Gordon got there first, though, outstripping Alan by a good five yards.

"Hey, Leader-Man…" he started to call, ending in a sudden halt, and, "Oh, sh*t!"

One look at Scott's bloodless face told him that it wasn't some sort of joke, or training simulation. What was up there was real. Gordon turned back for the door just as Alan came barreling in, red-faced and panting. He'd meant to stop John, to prepare him, somehow, but the astronaut was right behind Alan, looking mildly annoyed by the summons. John said,

"Scott, what's the…?" and then just stopped. Virgil, Kayo and Lieutenant Kraft piled in behind, pushing the astronaut forward. They were followed by Brains and Max, who'd delayed a bit to help Grandma.

There, on the holo-projector, was Global-1, the GDF's orbital research and launch station. Dark and sparking, its panels shattered and most of the visible hatches blown, the station was a wreck. No one spoke, simply standing aside to let John through to Scott. He looked from the screen to his older brother, who gave a sharp, angry head-shake.

"I don't know, John. There's been no distress call, no alarms, and nobody's answering the comm… I can't figure out…"

"Greetings, children," purred a sudden, silky, terribly familiar voice. "I trust that I have your attention?"

Scott started to reply, but the image shifted before he could do more than open his mouth and draw breath. Now, they saw Captain O'Bannon, apparently bound, with the Hood behind her, a knife in one hand. Seeming to see them, she shouted,

"John, don't do anything he says! I love…"

The Hood backhanded her, sending O'Bannon crashing to the floor. Then he placed a foot on her back, pinning her down.

"You see, there is more than one way to silence a yapping woman," he told them.

Scott somehow managed to stand, placing a hand on the shoulder of John, who'd gone dead-white and motionless; fists clenched trembling-tight at his sides. Virgil came over, as well. Only Kayo hung back; a wild, haunted look on her face.

"What do you want?!" Scott demanded, in a voice that sounded strange and rough, even to him.

"Ah! Straight down to 'brass tacks', is it, Dear Boy?"

Ignoring the fiery pain in his leg, Scott leaned forward.

"I'm not your 'Dear Boy', you sadistic piece of sh*t, I'm the son of Jeff Tracy who's going to put your ass down, _hard_. Now… what the h*ll do you want?!"

The Hood, bald, elegantly clothed, and serene, refused to give a straight answer, instead saying,

"How droll. I believe the question is, "what do I have that _you_ want", my dear child… besides the woman and her crew, that is. Most are already in stasis, of course, set to be freed from suspension, just after the station decompresses entirely. They shall have a brief, gripping ten seconds in which to curse your lack of effort on their behalf. I, naturally, shall already have gone."

Virgil Tracy had begun to breathe very hard, staring at the face of the killer who'd robbed them all… robbed _him_ … of a father. He'd been fifteen years old when dad crashed into that glacier-locked mountain. Emma took his hand and gave it a brief squeeze, but Virgil hardly noticed.

"I believe my brother asked you a _question,_ a**hole."

The Hood nodded and smiled.

"Yes, he did. And here is my response, infant. I have something of yours, which has served as my footstool for quite some time, but has ceased to amuse. Regard!"

He gestured, and the view shifted sideways. There… Six years. It had been six years, and every one of them had dreamed and wished and prayed to see dad, again. But not _there,_ not like _this_. Clearly in stasis, he was still in his burnt and slashed IR flight suit, bloodied and bruised; his position that of a man hauling himself free of a wrecked cockpit, his expression a mixture of rage and surprise.

Grandma almost fell, then, but Brains and Max held her up, the robot warbling and tweeting in comfort. This time, it was John who spoke.

"How do we know he's alive, or that you'll release them all, when we've met your price?"

Hearing him, Ridley tried to say something, but the Hood simply stepped on her harder, his smile beginning to broaden.

"You don't know, 'John Matthew'. That's what makes it a game. Who wishes to play, when the outcome is already known? As to my price, 'Little Brother'… it is simply this: I want the two eldest of the brood. Yourself, and your lamed brother, one each in Thunderbirds 1 and 2. You will receive coordinates, and shall launch in twenty minutes time. Do this, and I shall not hinder rescue efforts rendered at Global-1. Fail to comply, and everyone here will die of explosive decompression. Except for the woman. I believe that I shall amuse myself, Child, as there seems to be more than mere friendship, between you."

Maybe someone was trying to hold him back, but the suit made their grip like cobwebs. John stepped toward the image.

"I can't speak for Scott. I can't take someone else's Bird. But you want me, you've got me. Let them go."

Scott had limped forward to join him.

"Both of us. No Tracy is ever alone. We'll go."

But Grandma stalked up like a wet, angry cat.

"NO!" she snapped, glaring at the Hood's smirking image, "You ain't getting nothing! Not either of these boys, nor Jeff or the station crew, neither! The GDF…"

"Is currently occupied. If you'll examine your monitor screen, you will see that a sudden rash of desperate emergencies has cropped up across the globe. They are quite, _quite_ overwhelmed, alas. Pity. Now, come… I grow weary of talk. Have we a deal, or haven't we?"

"Grandma," said John, putting his hands on her tense, heaving shoulders, "we have to."

Scott might have had trouble standing for so long, but Virgil was there, providing hidden support.

"He's right, Grandma," Scott told her. "There's no choice, and you know it. It's _dad_ … and a whole bunch of innocent people. What the h*ll else can we do?"

All of this seemed to amuse the Hood mightily.

"Twenty minutes from _mark,"_ he said, in that same, silky voice. "You shall receive my coordinates in flight, and you shall come alone. No riders, and no tracking devices; transponders off, or I consider our deal null and void. _Now_ , children. I should scurry, were I you. Time, as you are all so fond of saying, is "a wasting". Farewell, until later. Do hurry. My patience is not without limit, as our mutual friend the Mechanic has already learned."

Gordon had come to the fore. Looking the Hood's image square in the face, he made a tense, flat statement; all the joy and fun driven out of him.

"It'll be me. I'm gonna kill you. Whatever happens to my brothers will look like a f***ing picnic. They won't find enough pieces to bury. I _promise."_

The Hood seemed to consider. Then, his smile fading slightly, he said,

"I look forward to the challenge, 'Tadpole'," ...and cut off his comm.

The room erupted in chaos, then. Scott bellowed,

"Virgil, Alan, Gordon, get up there, _now,_ in Thunderbird 3! Get dad and Captain O'Bannon… get everyone. _Move!_ He said he wouldn't hinder us, but that doesn't mean he'll play fair!"

John had been looking around for Kayo. She was standing near the room's back wall, looking very much like a girl hearing voices. A sudden, terrible thought occurred to him, then, but he pushed it away. Didn't say anything, either, in case he was (please, please let him be) wrong.

Just signaled Scott and started to leave the room, only there was Grandma; too proud and fierce to cry. She fussed with the collar of his space suit, trying and failing to speak. Stroked Scott, as well, then stumbled blindly away. Next, it was Alan. The boy was keeping it together with obvious effort, that bruise over his left eye, a stark purple blotch.

"John…" he said, "Scott… I'll bring her and Dad back. I promise. It's gonna work out. You'll be… I mean, you'll figure something out, just like always. _He's not gonna win!_ We won't let him get you!"

And then Alan hugged them both, fiercely tight, before breaking off toward Virgil and Gordon, ashamed of his tears. Again, John looked for Kayo, but she'd vanished. As a last resort, not wishing to betray his sister, he called across all that chaos,

"Brains! Protocol Gamma. You hear me? Gamma."

The engineer blinked, looking confused; then, hesitantly, he nodded.

"Y- Yes, John. Gamma."

After that, John fairly dragged his limping older brother from the room.

"Gamma?" Scott prodded, mostly to take his mind off the pain. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," the astronaut replied. "And I'm hoping he gets it. Long shot, anyhow. But listen, Scott… I may have an idea. I've got to get upstairs to 5. There's something I need, up there."

Scott looked over from remotely piloting Thunderbird 1.

"We're supposed to be wheels-up in twenty minutes, Little Brother."

"Then I'll get there and back, in ten. It's important, Scott."

"Right. Go. I've got both Birds on their way. Hurry."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, back at the comm center, Lieutenant Kraft had drawn her young man aside.

"With all of you headed out at once, the homestead's going to be pretty vulnerable," she told him. "I can have a cadre of Marines swarming this place in thirty seconds. Say the word, Taz."

"Bring 'em," he replied, clasping her close. "But watch yourself and your people. The Hood plays for keeps, Angel. I need you to stay safe."

She tipped her head back to look at Virgil, who was already pulling free in his haste to set off.

"If safety was what I wanted, I wouldn't have joined the d*mn navy, and I wouldn't have met _you,"_ she said. "Be careful, up there. Fly smart, and come back."

Virgil lifted her into a long, hard kiss and embrace, and then he was gone, running for the launch silo after Gordon and Alan.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The space elevator was already on the ground, outside. John raced within, cycled up his environment suit to maximum, and cancelled all the pod's safety checks. Threw himself on the couch without even much strapping in; just hit 'emergency return' and hung on for a crushing-fast ride.

"Eos," he grunted, barely able to expand his rib cage enough to speak. "Scramble access codes. No entry to anyone… but me… _period."_

"Yes, John. Codes scrambled. In other news, you are coming in very quickly. The stopping force may break bones or cause internal damage, if you do not slow your ascent."

"In a… hurry," John replied, about to black out. "Take… the risk." Made himself stay conscious by thinking of Ridley, and Dad. The danger to himself didn't matter. Nothing mattered but speed, and the plan.

He did, indeed, strike hard, causing damage to the airlock collar, and maybe himself. Too much adrenaline to feel pain, though. Just shot into his station through two barely-opened hatches, and crossed the dome in a single, wild swoop, nearly crashing into the computer access panel. Grabbed hold with both hands, but his momentum carried him on up and over, like a gymnast on the parallel bars. Got it under control and got what he came for, though, in less than a minute. As he was on his way out, again, Eos said,

"John, what about me? What shall I do?"

(She'd been awfully restrained since that thing with O'Bannon, and the question surprised him.) At the pod's hatch, again, John looked directly into her lens, saying,

"Eos, I won't be here to give orders. Can't foresee what you might run into, either. So… you're free. Do what seems best, just safeguard innocent life, always. Understood?"

"Free? But what if I become violent, again, John? What if I am not to be trusted, without you?"

He touched her lens housing, with its fitfully swirling pale lights. Received several quick, warm scans, in return.

"You'll do fine, Sweetheart. Concentrate on Global-1. Help O'Bannon, Dad, and my brothers. I trust you."

And then he was back in the elevator pod, already signaling descent and cancelling safety precautions, with maybe a dangerous ace up his sleeve.

Crashed the pod coming back down, because he'd barely touched his braking rockets. It was a hard, jarring touchdown, but what the h*ll, huh? Any landing you can walk away from…

Silvery Thunderbird 1 was in the air already, with Scott aboard. Giant, green Thunderbird 2 was just behind her, swooping in low to collect the racing astronaut. As he was caught by the ramp and lifted aboard, John took a last tilted, gale-force look at Tracy Island. There was too much... and nothing at all... to say. Ruthlessly squashing emotion, just getting the job done, John turned and strode for the cockpit.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island-_

Back in the day, Alan would have boarded 3 by riding this super-cool, moving couch thingy. Best ride on the island, right? Now, though, with everything torn up and destroyed by the Mechanic's drones, Alan had to board his spaceship the old-fashioned way; by zipping on up a gantry elevator, with Virgil and Gordon. But that didn't matter. Only things Alan wanted were speed, and space. He'd have got out and pushed, if it would have made the dang thing move any faster. To his right, the long red hull of Thunderbird 3 seemed to pour past him like crimson syrup. In uniform for the first time in, like, _ever_ , Alan glanced at his soon-to-be passengers.

His brothers were quiet. Gordon performing a last, nervous equipment check, as always; Virgil seeming lost in thought, humming to himself. Alan hesitated to interrupt, but he was the leader on this one, so…

"Virgil, you'll ride up front with me. Gordon, strap down in the passenger cabin."

Just stopped himself from adding, ' _okay?'_ His brothers nodded, the gantry lights painting their faces with alternating flashes of white and green.

"You're the rocket-man, Bro," Gordon reminded him, not quite able to smile. "Tell us what you need, and we're there."

Added Virgil,

"I don't do space very often, but one thing I can do, is fly. Upload me the manual, Sprout, and I'll read it on the way over. I'm a quick study."

Alan nodded, and began tapping at his wrist comm. Then, he said,

"Okay, Virge. You're good to go. Start hitting the books, and study hard. My girl is _sensitive."_

Good as far as it went, but they were still waiting for his next order. That felt weird, but in a really cool way. Unconsciously blending Scott and John, both, he added,

"Right. Sounds like we've got a plan. We'll get in fast, and go to work. Virge, you'll mind 3, and keep a lookout for trouble. Gordon and me will enter Global-1 to evacuate victims."

The elevator stopped with a loud, jarring _CLANK_ , depositing them high in the air by 3's nose-cone and cockpit. No robot forklift, this time, just a dizzily- narrow boarding strut of swaying, pierced metal. The silo walls, Alan noticed, had been braced and patched with whatever Brains could scrounge, and Max could weld into place.

"Looks like this is gonna be a one-way trip," he said aloud, looking suspiciously up at all those raggedy patches. "I don't think this tube's gonna survive a launch."

"One thing at a time, Al," said Virgil, giving his shoulder a quick, friendly punch. "Rescue, first. Reentry whenever, and however, we can."

"Same as ever," added Gordon, ducking through the boarding hatch while the thing was still sliding open. But he'd always been a sort of impatient guy.

They hustled aboard, breaking into a run to reach their stations. Alan slid into his seat and pulled the braces down. Should have run a pre-flight, but skipped it. That tube was already too scary, and all the red lights in the world wouldn't have stopped him, anyhow.

Virgil thumped down in the seat beside Alan's. He looked slightly unfocused; concentrating hard on the virtual screen which hung before his face, watching everything there was to know about Thunderbird 3. His big hands moved from time to time, imitating control gestures. Yeah, he'd be ready.

"Cutting straight to countdown, guys," Alan called out, adding, "Brains, we're on our way!"

"Y- Yes, Alan," the engineer responded, his holo nodding vigorous approval. "Permission to launch, and, ah… and g- good hunting!"

"Same. Stay safe, you guys."

3's engines began steaming, slightly. Then, they rumbled. Alan set a course for Global-1, as the rumble converted to a mighty, thundering roar, and chunks of launch silo began to peel away from the tube. Thinking fast, he hit the force shield button and reverse-tractor at the same time, literally destroying his own launch tube, but blasting free.

Thunderbird 3 shot into the air like magma from an exploding volcano, or the lance of an angry war god. What little had remained of the house just gave up and disintegrated; powdered by the force of Alan's red Bird. He was plastered to his seat by immediate Gs.

"C'mon, Baby," he whispered to 3, "we gotta hustle. People are waiting. Dad's up there! He's never seen me fly. Gimme everything you got!"

Like John, Alan broke safety regs. Like John, he didn't care. Just did whatever it took, regardless of personal cost.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island-_

Back at the lab, Lieutenant Kraft jumped at the sudden loud noise and vibration. No one else looked alarmed, though, so she got herself in check, pretty quick. Turning to look at Brains, she asked,

"What did he mean, 'protocol gamma'? What's that all about?"

The engineer gave her a helpless shrug.

"I d- do not know, Ms. Kraft. Honestly, it is m- meaningless, to me."

"Lieutenant," she corrected him. "Use my rank, or just 'Kraft'. Never 'miss'. Okay, so if there's no gamma, then he was speaking in code. You know Sneaky Pete better than I do, Mister. What's on his mind?"

Hackenbacker put a hand to his chin, pondering all that he knew of John's possible code words.

"W- Well… Gamma is an ancient Greek letter, c- corresponding to Basic ' _C'_ …"

Emma cocked her head to one side, green eyes narrowed in thought.

"C… as in caution, or careful, maybe. So, something's wrong here. He knows it, and wants you to be aware, too. Okay, look around, Brainiac. What's different? What doesn't feel right? I got Marines on the way, and I don't want my people walking into a trap."

The engineer did a full 360, scanning the room. Then, he blurted out,

"Wh- Where is Kayo?!"

"Who, the girl? She was just in here… nope. You're right. She's gone."

Emma grabbed at his arm to stop the man's fussing. Vagueness and indecision irritated the crap out of her. Always had.

"Does she have a battle station? A particular post, or combat duty?" she demanded.

Brains shook his head, no.

"N- Negative, Lieutenant. Kayo is our chief of s- security, but that entails mostly p- patrols in Thunderbird Shadow and, ah… and occasional espionage."

"Hmm… not to get too personal, but she doesn't look like her brothers. Where's she from?"

Anguished, the engineer wrung his thin, work-battered hands, saying,

"K- Kayo is adopted, Lieutenant. The m- matter is v- v- very complex, and not s- spoken of."

Kraft ran a hand through her loose, blondish-brown hair, trying to think like a Tracy. Like the legendary colonel, himself. A strong man, according to GDF scuttlebutt. Very brave, but compassionate. Someone who'd take in and shelter anyone at all, even… _even the enemy._

"Oh, sh*t. She's one of _his_ , isn't she? Your 'Kayo' has ties to the Hood! _That's_ why he knows all the nicknames and plans, and that's why the code! So, she wouldn't hear…"

Brains bit his lip and then nodded, miserably conceding the possibility. Didn't say anything, though.

"Dammit. Okay… we have to assume that, at best, she's removed herself from the action for conflict of interest. At worst, that she's turned against you. Hold on."

Kraft hit her comm, murmuring,

"Blue team, proceed with extreme caution. There may be a hostile in the area. Asian female, five-six, around ninety-five pounds, dark hair, green eyes, trained combatant, probably armed. Capture, if possible. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged, Ma'am," came the reply. "ETA to your location, seven minutes."

"Copy that, Rodriguez. Stay sharp, and set up a close perimeter. Kraft, out."

Mostly, Marines were a pain in the ass; nothing but carousing wild men with giant appetites and fierce tempers. Nice to have around in a pinch, though.

The engineer had begun flitting worriedly around from one task to the next, making her want to slap him. The old woman… Grandma… was sitting in a hard-backed chair, rocking back and forth a bit, fingering a strand of smooth, wooden beads. No good. Everyone had to be focused and on point, even the old folks. No one slacked off on _her_ watch. Emma crossed over to stand before the grey-haired, spectacled woman.

"Mrs. Tracy," she said, "your people are well trained. They've had plenty of PT, drill and exercises, and they know their jobs, correct?"

The old woman nodded, hanging the loop of worn beads around her thin neck. She peered up at Emma, but like Brains, said nothing.

"Right. So, what they need from you is information and rapid decision-making. That's what command is _about_ , Mrs. Tracy. If you care about your people, you've got to help think them through this. Shut down, and they're lost, leaderless. Now, I don't know about you, but I can't accomplish a d*mn thing without think-juice, and plenty of it. _Coffee,_ Mrs. Tracy. Where's the coffee?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, the overlook-_

She clutched at her head, fighting very hard not to scream. Kill. She was supposed to kill everyone here, starting with Hackenbacker, and ending with those sneaking Marines. _Her family…!_

No, not her family, insisted the voice. Blood and nature tied her to the Kyranos, and her uncle. The Tracys were nothing but prey; meat for her kind. Jeff Tracy's foolish compassion for a shell-shocked child had placed her in the perfect location to strike from within. She was a hunter, a predator; meant to feel the Tracys squirm beneath her, as their life bled out, hot.

But a cascade of images kept fighting the voice. Herself, snugged against Dad as he taught her to read. John, holding fast to her bike and running alongside, when the training wheels had come off, at last. Scott, tossing her into the air and catching her, again. Gordon, daring her to race him, in the pool. Alan, wide-eyed with puppy-dog love… and Virgil. Handsome, strong Virgil, doing push-ups while she sat, cross-legged and giggling, on his broad, shifting back. Grandma, soothing, explaining… replacing the mother who'd been torn to bits before Kayo's eyes.

It had been a long time before she'd been able to speak to them… but they'd cared for her, anyhow. They'd loved her. Kayo crumpled into a tight little ball, tearing her hair and clawing herself till she bled.

 _'Please,'_ she thought, _'Please,_ _no_ _._ _I can't…!'_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Former UK, Creighton-Ward Manor-_

Others had heard the Hood's message, as well. In Britain, at a ball thrown in her honor by Sir Hugh and Lady Amelia, Penelope Creighton-Ward had excused herself from the festivities to answer her buzzing compact. The WC had been crowded with giggling women, so she'd ducked into a little-used tiring room.

The message was urgent, apparently, so Penny took it at once, barely troubling to conceal herself. Flipped the compact open, smiling briefly at her own lovely reflection, before keying the replay feature. Then, after several stark, awful minutes.

"No. They _cannot_ be serious! Scott, are you _mad?_ He will surely kill you!"

"Milady," said Parker, coming in through the opposite door, his own comm still buzzing. "Hi've taken the liberty of bringing the car round front. There's a change of clothes in the back. Shall we be setting off, then?"

She straightened, suddenly hating the flower-decked up-do, and pale blue gown in which she'd been dancing and laughing, all night.

"Indeed, Parker. Clever man! Let us make all haste. And surely, there is some method by which an interested third party might snoop on coordinates aimed at Thunderbird 1?"

"Right you are, Milady. Was thinking the same way, m'self."

Penny flashed a quick smile, thinking,

 _'Silly, daft Scott! Whatever would you do without me?'_

Then, she picked up her silk skirts and bolted from the manor like a lawless Cinderella, out to rescue her prince.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Shadow Alpha Base-_

Out behind the Moon, meanwhile, a not-quite retired astronaut was sighting along the barrel of his dusty old laser rifle.

"Well, Bess," he said, slinging the weapon across his back by the carry strap. "Looks like you n' me got us a job to do."

Then, glancing around himself at well-loved chaos and disrepair,

"Alphy, no breakdowns, till I get back. Stay in one piece, you old rust-bucket! Reckon I'll be back pretty soon with Jeff, and a passel o' Tracys, and I'd like you looking your best, when they gets here. Put on the dog, sort of."

Captain Taylor patted a wall brace that creaked and sagged at his affectionate touch. Shaking his head, he started whistling, taking long, soaring Moon steps on his way to the hangar

"You'll miss me when I'm gone, you piece of junk!" he half-joked, collecting his helmet from the wall-mounted rack. "Only reason _either_ of us is still hanging in there's to outlive the other!"

And maybe, he'd miss Alphy, too.


	22. Chapter 22

Just about there.

 **22**

 _Tracy Island, the overlook-_

The noise and battle in her head would not stop. She was torn from within by nature and love. Blood was her heritage; warmth and affection, her upbringing. But the demands of that voice were becoming stronger and something inside her had begun to respond.

She made a decision. Forced herself to uncurl and stand up, gasping with the effort of keeping a lid on her own surging nightmare. Then, Kayo climbed the overlook's high metal rail. There was only the deep, forested gorge at her back, when the girl twisted herself to gaze toward home, and her family. Managed to wave and blow a small kiss, despite the rising fury of that screaming internal voice. Managed to say,

"Goodbye… I love you."

…and then she threw herself over the side.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1, in flight beside 2-_

The coordinates had come; feeding themselves directly into the silver Bird's nav computer. Northwest, it looked like… somewhere deep in the Gobi Desert. Scott heard and felt his Bird's control surfaces alter, watched the moonlight slip across the cockpit as she banked on autopilot, taking him to the Hood.

Thunderbird 2 slid out of sight, momentarily (he hoped; please, that they weren't headed to completely different locations). Hanging sideways in the seat straps, Scott took enough control to dip his Bird's wings, just in case. John responded by flashing 2's high beams, brief and bright as lightning, in the corner of his eye. Then, because he hated doing nothing, and because he was… let's say a little bit nervous… Scott selected a particular switch on his wrist comm.

"Hey. He didn't say that we couldn't talk to each _other_ , right?"

Thunderbird 2 was now back alongside. Scott could see her red and green running lights, that big, spot-lit "2", and a curving gold row of windows, with John's silhouette like a tiny dark bead. Just there, off to his left.

After a second, his brother's holo appeared before him, projected from the wrist comm.

"No. He didn't. What's on your mind, Scott?"

Like his older brother, the astronaut had nothing to do. Thunderbird 2 had been locked into auto-flight, which made him, too, a d*mn passenger. He seemed calm and detached. Almost eerily so, considering. But then, the more chaotic and wild the situations got, the cooler John turned. Just his way, Scott supposed.

"Right. Need to bring up these unscheduled field trips of yours, Little Brother. It's one thing to leave Thunderbird 5, but… _without telling anyone?_ Sh*t, John… Virgil almost pissed himself, when he saw that decoy of yours, dodging laser blasts! But, um… don't say anything to him. He'd probably dig a hole and never come out again, if he thought I knew about that."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare anybody. Just… seemed like the thing to do at the time."

Scott nodded, glad that he appeared to be getting through.

"Understood, but you have to at least let us know where you are. Otherwise, in case of sudden evac… we won't know to look for you. Communication _matters_ , John. And now, with Dad back…"

They were silent, for a moment. Scott sat back in the pilot's seat, looking for a comfortable way to position his injured leg.

"I really want to see him again, John."

"Yeah. Me, too… and O'Bannon."

More silence, except for engine rumble and wind noise.

"You said you've got a plan?"

John's holo pulled a slight face.

"I've got about a hundred of them. Won't know which one to use, till we get there. That's why it's so hard to tell you what I'm doing, in advance. It's a cloud of possibles, Scott… not a road."

"Right. Like Dad always used to… like Dad _says_ , we make it up as we go along. Especially you."

"I'll try to do better, if… you know."

"Yeah," Scott nodded, finishing the statement in his mind: _if we get through this._

Heading westward, like that, they were chasing the Sun, moving the clock backward in time until night became twilight and, finally, day. John probably saw that millions of times, but for Scott, the wonder was fresh… except that it meant they'd almost arrived.

On autopilot, both Birds began to bank and descend, heading for a blistered and rocky, tan wasteland. Scott saw the wrinkled folds of mountains, the pencil-lines of roads, tiny ant-hills of people and towns, all scratched onto a vast, hollow desert. Then, as they descended still further, a lone building came into view, jabbing a dark, angry lance at the sky. It was late afternoon, local time, Scott figured. Not that it mattered. His heart rate picked up, and his breathing roughened. He said,

"John, I… it's been…"

"Yeah. Same, Scott."

At least they'd got that settled; all the unspoken "I love you"s were out of the way, whatever else happened. Nothing left to do now but follow Dad's _other_ favorite saying: _When in the field, Son, we adapt, we improvise, we overcome._

For his own part, Scott planned to stay sharp, seek an opening, and then beat the sh*t out of that sly, sneaking, murderous bastard. All the while hoping that John could be slier and sneakier, still.

The Birds leveled out and dropped lower, flying themselves, under the guidance of the Hood's uploaded coordinates. Not their fault. _They_ didn't know any better. They touched down quite gently, rather than augering in as Scott had more than halfway expected. Then,

"Welcome, Children. You can have no idea how much I've anticipated your arrival. _Do_ come forth. Step lively, good lads."

Thunderbird 1's boarding canopy opened up, and the pilot's chair began to lower, its mechanism's hum almost lost in a gusty and chill desert wind. But debarking, even standing, was one thing. Walking, quite another. His leg simply refused to bear weight, or be moved… and _dammit_ , he was not going to fall. Not in front of _him._

John, meanwhile, had unstrapped from the pilot's seat in Thunderbird 2. Suit was already near its highest setting, drawing power like a b*tch. Hopefully, Eos would keep him supplied. If not, well… time for plan W, X, or whichever the h*ll plan they'd gotten to, now.

Took the "payload" from a seat compartment where he'd stashed it, then stuffed the thing in his largest sash pocket beside his earpiece. Next said, very quietly,

"Sash regress. No visible pockets. Part of the uniform. Can't be removed."

The environment suit's circuitry flashed and branched in response, forking like lightning to perform the required alterations. Then, as prepared as he was likely to get, John crossed to Thunderbird 2's boarding ramp, which had now been remotely deployed.

He stepped out and down into late afternoon sunshine; the light, that particular harsh, clear sort that you got in high deserts. The air was cold and dry, with a faint, distant horse smell. The ground underfoot was flat, but unstable, being more cobbled than sandy. A single tall building stood just to the north. Made of some dark, unreflective stone, it looked like someone had jabbed a big stick in the ground.

Thunderbird 1 was a short distance away to his left, with Scott standing in front. John began moving toward his brother, thinking that this rough, shifting surface would be tough going for a man with an injured leg. Reached him just as a file of dark figures began pouring out of the building. At first, he thought twenty or so, but John kept having to revise his estimate upward as more of the… men? As more came out. They moved oddly; in unison, and in perfect silence. Wore some kind of featureless helmet, too.

"Yay. We got our own welcoming committee," said Scott, as John drew the injured man's left arm across his shoulders. "Lucky us."

Then,

"Thanks, John," as the astronaut helped him to walk.

"No problem. Guess this is it."

"Guess so. If you develop any last-minute brainstorms, Little Brother, you have my full, official permission to try them."

John was concentrating on their footing as Scott sort of limp-hopped beside him, pulling down hard on his shoulder with each painful step. Like Scott, he refused to fall, or show fear.

The black-clad "men" had formed two perfect rectangles before the building, with an aisle between that led straight to its gaping front door.

"Thanks," John said drily. "I'll take it under advisement. Think those are people?"

"Don't know," Scott replied. "They move wrong. Too stiff. Don't know what's under those helmets, and I'm not sure I want to, either."

John had an arm around him on one side, and was clasping hands with the arm draped across his shoulders, on the other. Said Scott,

"Hey, remember that time we ran away from home, then got lost in the woods?"

"Yeah. I twisted my leg pretty bad, when I fell off that log bridge."

Scott nodded, holding to memory in the face of disaster.

"This was exactly the way we walked home…"

"…All night."

"…Till Dad found us. D*mn, was he upset!"

Maybe Scott squeezed his brother's hand, a little. Maybe John clasped back, harder. But if so, nobody knew about it.

"Of course, Grandma says there's another side."

"That, she does," John replied, noncommittally.

"Think she's right?"

John couldn't shrug very well, with most of Scott's weight on his shoulders, so he settled for,

"I dunno, Scott. I hope so."

The silent figures turned in eerie unison to watch their progress, until Scott and John came at last to the gaping black door.

"Yeah. Well, here we are. See you on the other side, Little Brother."

"See you."

And then, they walked in.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, approaching high orbit-_

Alan actually had to cut past Thunderbird 5 to reach Global-1. Ordinarily, he'd have done a barrel roll salute, by firing his steering rockets one after the other, and John would have replied by flashing the station's ring lights. This time was different, though.

"It's gonna be okay," Alan insisted stubbornly. "They'll be _fine."_

Virgil was busy studying, and Gordon was back in the passenger cabin with his eyes closed and his earbuds in, listening to music. Nobody heard him, but Alan repeated it, anyhow, needing reassurance.

"It's gonna be _fine."_

His lightly freckled, blue-eyed face settled into the sort of grim lines that belonged to a man. Then, just because, he did that barrel roll, anyway. And somebody, Eos, flashed back, causing the ring to light up and shine like a carnival Ferris wheel, just like always, when Alan flew past. The backs of his eyes prickled, but he grinned and waved, feeling suddenly much less alone.

Global-1 was only a short burn from Thunderbird 5 at the time, having come up past the Earth's limb. Up close, she looked even worse; wounded, charred and dying. Alan gave a low whistle.

 _"Pheew!_ Someone did a number on _you_ , all right! Focused microwaves, maybe, or a powerful laser."

Then he called out,

"Okay, guys, it's show time."

Stopping in space was complicated, as there was nothing at all to drag or push against. He had to fire retro-rockets to match his previous speed and momentum, but in the opposite direction. As John would say, "simple physics", the sort that came naturally to a life-long videogame player. He also had to look for a place to "park" and hook up, which wasn't easy on a derelict.

"I read some atmosphere… not picking up much in the way of life signs, though," said Virgil, scanning his instruments. "But if they're all in stasis, I guess that makes sense."

Gordon had unstrapped early and come forward, pulling himself along through the cabin by using whatever was handy. His earbuds floated on both sides of his sandy-blond head like antennae. He stared hard through the view port as the station rolled past underneath them, looking like she'd been bombed; long as a couple of football pitches.

"Wow…" Gordon breathed. "It's enormous. Guys, with no life signs... how're we going to find everybody, in time?"

Virgil had that "over to you, Sprout," look on his face, on top of his "I hate space" expression. Yeah. Great to be in charge.

"I dunno… get creative, I guess, and try to be fast. You start on one end, I'll take the other, and we'll meet in the middle."

Alan chose the third docking port to hook up to, as it was the least damaged; extending a long, flexible evac tube across to the station from Thunderbird 3. Once they were locked into place, Alan pushed up his seat brace and floated free in the cockpit, saying,

"What d'you think? Take them back up as we find them, or keep a string, like fish?"

Gordon considered.

"Take them in as we find 'em," he decided. "A long string of people in stasis won't be easy to move in a hurry… Worse, if they all come to life at once, and start throwing a fit, or something."

Virgil had shifted himself to the pilot's chair by that point, looking uncomfortable, but controlling it. He really, _genuinely_ , did not like space. Weird.

"Okay," he said, "I've got the helm. You guys stay safe in there, and look out for traps, or cloaked hostiles."

"You think?" said Gordon. "They'd better watch out for _us._ We got this, Virgil."

Alan nodded, bumping fists with his worked-up brother, and sending them both flying backward to strike opposite bulkheads.

"Team supreme," he boasted. "The Hood isn't ready for _this!"_

They'd all donned their helmets, by then. Alan helped Gordon on with a jet pack, too, telling him,

"Remember, Bro… you can't swim in space. You have to maneuver with air jets. Take some time to practice, before you head off."

But Gordon didn't want advice, he wanted action.

"Okay, yeah," he snorted. "Thanks for the lesson, Granddad… can I have the car keys, now?"

Inside the helmet, Alan shook his head.

"Whatever, Dude. Don't say I didn't warn you."

They'd reached the airlock, by this time, and forgot their argument when Alan opened first one, then the other hatch, with voice commands. Pushing off with little jet-blasts, they crossed to Global-1 through the evac tube, and all foolishness ceased.

Gordon and Alan gave each other a last, good-luck high-five, then took opposite sides of the long, stricken craft, and began hunting for the Hood's victims. Some were easy to find, having been suspended out in the open. Others were hidden; tucked away behind equipment panels or back in locked cabins. The whole thing was like a macabre, silent Easter egg hunt, in shifting spears of helmet glow.

As Scott had said, there were no alarms, no warning lights. No power, at all. Just devastation and darkness, and cold, leaking air. Despite what he'd told Alan, Gordon did have some trouble getting around, at first. It was hard not to kick and stroke as he would have done in the water. But, without anything to push against, swimming got him nowhere, quick. Refused to ask for help, though. Just taught himself how to scoot around and change directions using the switch -controlled air jets. He had to. Dad and Captain O'Bannon were here, somewhere, and the faster they found everyone, the faster Scott and John would be free to strike back at their captor.

On the bright side, people in stasis weren't just statues. They _did_ have a signal, sort of… just really weak. Had to be practically on top of them for your scanner to read the organics. Some of the crew had been hung out on the hull by their belt straps, looking startled, or angry, or afraid, or unconscious. Whatever they'd been when the Hood's strongmen put that blue stasis disk on their foreheads.

Weird to see someone out there in space without a suit, like that, and know that they were still alive. Gordon turned one crewman up after another, but Dad and O'Bannon eluded him. And always, at the back of his mind, was the Hood's threat to decompress the station and then wake people up, remotely. How much time did they have, he wondered? How long would that sadistic madman allow them to go back and forth from station to Bird, ferrying rock-hard crewmen?

He had his music channeled into his helmet… "Lions", by a long-vanished band called Skillet… but not so loud that he couldn't hear Virgil's sudden call of,

"Heads up, you two. We've got a visitor."

Virgil didn't sound worried, and a second later, Gordon knew why.

"Hey there, young fellas! Thought you all could use a hand! How ya doin' up there, Victor?"

"Fine, Sir. Thanks for the help."

"Anytime, Vic. Your dad would do the same, for me."

 _Uncle Lee?_ No way to tell where on the station he was, since the helmet's acoustic pick-up wasn't directional. Also, it sounded like each speaker was right by his ear. So, Gordon called out,

"Uncle Lee? Where are you, Sir?"

"Over here in the shuttle dock, Godfrey. Where's little Alvin?"

"Here, Sir! In the galley!" Like Gordon and Virgil, Al didn't bother correcting their father's old friend, because A) it wouldn't be respectful, and B) it wouldn't stick, anyhow.

"Found your old man, yet?"

"No, Sir… still looking," chimed Alan.

"Me, either. Plus, can't find Captain O'Bannon," added Gordon, retracing his path to the others. The three met in mid-station; Alan and Gordon in blue, high tech IR space suits, Captain Taylor in a patched and worn relic of his Mars exploration days. They embraced, briefly, and ended up careening into a bulkhead, en masse.

"How many ya found, so far?" Taylor asked them, once they'd got themselves sorted.

"Twenty-two altogether, Uncle Lee," said Alan. "Crew manifest says there are twenty-five, but if that's true, then they're _really_ well hidden."

"Plus, Dad," Gordon insisted, shoving Alan's shoulder, which once again bounced them both all over the cabin. This time, they recovered more quickly, remembering to use their jet packs.

"Gotta think like a sadistic, rotten game-player," said Captain Taylor. "He's puttin' these folks where he thinks it'd be funny for us to find 'em. So, imagine sick jokes, and ya probably got it."

His blue-grey eyes were hard and sharp and his lined face as grim as they'd ever seen it. No, he wasn't Dad, but Lee Taylor's sudden appearance was just about the next best thing.

"Knowing that sorry sonuvabitch, I'd start checkin' the bathrooms, boys."

…which was, in fact, where Alan found two further crewmen, and Dad. The Hood had positioned him head-downward over one of the station's vacuum toilets. Alan got him out and reoriented, before he told anyone. Also got him cleaned up, because the Hood had written a lot of vile threats on his face and uniform, in what looked like blood. But up close, he was still the strong, grey-haired hero that Alan had last seen, six years before.

The boy's hands were shaking when he tethered his father's rigid form to a loop on his own space suit, along with the other two. Spent a whole, selfish minute with the news to himself, then cleared a lump from his throat and said,

"Guys… Uncle Lee… I f- found him! I found Dad! He's here, he's right here!"

Gordon's whoop nearly broke his eardrums, but, yeah… _worth it._

 _"Alan, you rock! Get him aboard 3, quick!"_

Virgil was more restrained, but the shaky joy in his voice was still plain.

"Good work, Sprout. How many more? It's getting pretty crowded, in here. I'm gonna to have to start stowing people down in the cargo hold."

"Dad, plus these other two makes three, so we're only missing Captain O'Bannon. Dang it! Where _is_ she? Where did he put her?!"

Alan was already on his way back to Thunderbird 3, clutching his father and trailing two crewmen. Yes, he was weightless, but that wasn't the same as "free of inertia". All of that extra mass slowed him down, and made maneuvering hard.

It was just about then that the countdown began, and the station's emergency lights flickered on.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, the comm center, surrounded by wary Marines-_

Grandma, Brains, Max and Emma had heard the news, too. They'd been following events on Global-1 passively; just listening, so as not to distract the rescuers at a possibly critical moment.

Grandma Tracy hugged Brains and kissed Emma's cheek, when they heard Alan's report. One good thing often leads to another, though, and the old lady suddenly thought: _satellites._

"Brains," she said, "Think maybe you could highjack a few satellite cams, and look out for Thunderbird 1 and 2? Bet "you know who" wouldn't spot you doing it, neither. Not if you're careful."

Hackenbacker smiled at her.

"Y- Yes, Mrs. Tracy. I am b- believing that such a thing is, ah… is very much possible!"

Emma rubbed her cheek where the kiss was still warm, trying to wrap her head around the possibility that she'd be meeting Colonel Tracy, in person. Nodding her head, she said,

"You spot them, Hackenbacker, I'll call the GDF to send in some air support. Not that the "chair force" could fight their way out of a ripped paper bag, with box-cutters strapped to both hands… but they might provide some distraction, give your people a chance to get clear."

Grandma patted her shoulder, mussing Virgil's big red-plaid shirt.

"I like you, young lady," she said with a sudden, warm smile. "I think you'll do."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The Gobi Desert-_

The building was pitch dark, inside: cavernous and echoing with machinery. A long bank of lights cut on as they stepped away from the door's square of day-shine. There was a raised dais at the room's far end, and there, standing with both hands behind his back, and an icy smile, was the Hood.

"How very good of you to accept my invitation," he told them, in a voice like velvet. "Do come in. Our acquaintance must needs be brief… but fear not, it _shall_ be memorable. I intend to record all that transpires here, so that I may amuse myself time and again, with your throes."

"John," Scott muttered, at his brother's ear. "If you let me go and start now, you can make it out the door, still, and…"

"No," said the astronaut. "Started together, finish together. Not leaving."

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah. Seems to run in the family. Anyway, I'd miss you too much. Don't ever repeat that."

"Dead and buried," said Scott, trying to smile.

The Hood was still talking, pacing his dais and gesturing grandly.

"I shall have my creatures board your aircraft and fly them elsewhere, so as to confuse any effort at disruption."

Behind them, the silent, dark men began streaming within. Only, this time, they pulled the two brothers apart. John would have resisted, had the Hood not held up a kill-switch with a red button on top, his right thumb mashing it flat.

"This switch, Dear Boys, controls a series of bombs on the last intact portions of Global-1. If my thumb ceases to press, they all die. Simple, yet effective, as I am sure you'll agree. Now… ah, yes. A fitting end to you, both."

He began to descend from the black marble dais, using jeweled steps cut into its front.

"Shall we begin with the elder, who is surely weary of standing? Help him, my lackeys, to relax a bit more."

The dark-clad men shoved Scott, knocking him to the black marble floor. John started forward, but the Hood held up that hand, with its gleaming red switch.

"Now, now, 'John Matthew'. We mustn't grow impatient. Your time will come, as well."

Scott bit his lip, locked eyes with John, and then made himself rise. Ripped all of his stitches out doing it, though. The Hood waited for his audience to regain focus, then continued.

"For one so determined to be like his father… with the weight of the world on his shoulders, what better end, than slow crushing?"

He gestured at one of the room's huge machines, this one featuring mighty pistons, and a suddenly open hatch.

"Take him within," snarled the Hood, a manic light in his eyes. "And be certain that the interior camera remains functional. I should like to enjoy every moment."

Scott shot his brother a last glance before they sealed him inside, and then John was alone with the Hood.

"Now, then… for you, our brilliant young astronaut and star pitcher… the eyes and ears of International Rescue. What could surpass slow decompression? Your chamber shall be evacuated of air; not so slowly that you become bored, 'Little Brother', but slowly enough to provide entertainment."

Then, his tone changing with whiplash suddenness, the Hood barked,

"Put him inside!"

The strange, silent men took hold and began to propel John forward. They could not have forced him to go; not with the strength that his suit gave him… but John had a compelling reason to want to be locked away from the Hood's direct reach.

Scott's machine tomb had begun to rumble and flash. A screen lit up on the wall behind the dais, showing his brother trying to brace himself up in a standing position, as the ceiling descended. John tore his gaze away from the screen, allowed himself to be thrust into a mechanical tomb of his own.

It was circular inside; metal walled, with air vents on the high ceiling. Nothing you could climb through, though. Once the door had shut and locked, he heard a massive pump swing into action. Spotted the camera, made a rude gesture and turned away. Then he touched his gold sash, saying,

"Return pockets."

The air was growing thinner and colder by the second, but John paid no attention. Either he'd succeed, or he wouldn't. The Hood's kill-switch was an unforeseen complication, but into every life a little crap must fall, right?

His sash returned to normal with a flash of heat-lightning circuitry. John reached into the largest pocket and pulled forth, first his earpiece, then a slimmer, flatter version of the AI trap. Slipping his earpiece into place, he then pressed the trap against his vacuum chamber's cold metal wall, and pushed the button. Speaking in German once more, he said,

"Hunter, listen to me. I didn't destroy you, back there. I'm letting you go, now. Only, I need a favor. You want to destroy, go ahead. Tear this effing place apart, but jam that kill-switch, block the signal, because… because O'Bannon is up there, with my dad and brothers, and I want them to live. Don't know what else to say, except… anyone can change, if they want to. Even us."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Global-1, near the same time-_

30… 29… 28

Where was she?!

"Check them cabinets!" shouted Captain Taylor. "Even if it looks too small! Do it!"

At once, Gordon began ripping open each door in the long, curving bulkhead. It was Taylor who found her, though. Only, O'Bannon wasn't in stasis, at all. The bastard had left her semi-conscious and alone, stuffed into a space so small that she'd surely broken some bones being forced inside.

27… 26… 25…

They were on the sunward side of Global-1, quite far from Thunderbird 3. Taylor yanked her, gasping, back out of her prison.

24… 23… 22…

"Gotcha, young lady!" he said to the pale, battered officer. "Gonna get you to safety, too, but not on these rusty old jets. GODFREY!"

"Here, Sir!" Gordon shouted back, swooping their way.

"Catch!" Taylor braced himself against the bulkhead and hurled her with all of his might. Gordon fielded the dazed woman and then used his jets to reorient.

Taylor yelled,

"Burn it, Godfrey! _Move_ _like your ass is on fire!_ Alvin, Victor, we got 'er! Get ready to blast! Got me a feeling we ain't welcome, no more…"

21… 20… 19…

"Understood, Sir. Get out of there, hurry!" Then, hitting another comm switch, Virgil called out, "Grandma, Brains, Kayo… we got them all! Tell Scott and John everyone's safe! Tell them to fight!"

"I'll tell 'em, Teddy," Grandma responded. "You concentrate on getting everyone out of there, safely."

18… 17… 16…

Gordon shot through the station by helmet lamp, with perfect recall; not making a single mistake, or having to double back. He'd dived too many shipwrecks, caves and sunken buildings to get lost, here. Having mastered the jets, he flew at top speed, heading for Thunderbird 3.

15… 14… 13…

But Global-1 was a very long station, and time was short. O'Bannon clung to him, retching what little was left in her stomach.

12… 11… 10…

"Almost there, Captain. Hang on!"

She managed a crooked smile from a split and bleeding mouth. Said,

"Hanging, Gordon. Thanks… for trying."

9… 8…7…

Thunderbird 3's evac tube was in sight, a little to one side. Too far, still, at the rate that the countdown was progressing. His jets were nearly out of fuel, too. Wouldn't be able to slow down or change direction in midflight, without them.

6… 5… 4…

So, Gordon took a calculated risk. He shouted,

"Hatch open!"

Braced himself against the bulkhead, and then threw her as hard as he could.

3… 2… 1….

Captain O'Bannon gained the tube, and was able to kick herself forward into the airlock, which shut behind her just as the countdown ended.


	23. Chapter 23

Have been having a lot of fun. Thanks.

 **23**

 _Tracy Island, the gorge-_

She plunged like a stone, struck several branches, then was hung up for a few wild heartbeats on a sapling that bowed, swayed, and eventually snapped with a loud, whip-crack report. Began falling, again; tumbling through the air toward bottom. Then, with a suddenness that blasted the air from her lungs like a punch, Kayo's fall was arrested in midair. She would have cried out, had she possessed the wind to do so. Instead, the girl looked wildly around for the source of her unwelcome rescue. She saw nothing, at first… and heard no sound but a gusty, fretful wind from below.

An upward glare revealed a flicker where none ought to be; making the night sky and mountainside blink as though her universe had somehow skipped a few frames. Something was up there, cloaked against the entire EM spectrum, and sound, as well. It was holding her in place; pinning Kayo to the sky like one of the bugs in Hackenbacker's enormous collection. Adding to all the strangeness, that voice in her head had finally ceased its awful demands.

Then her uncle's holographic image was projected into the air, standing on nothing, looking her quizzically up and down. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and a weird, yellowish gleam to his icy green eyes.

"Surely," he said, shaking his bald head, "you hadn't intended destroying yourself over _that_ lot of worthless half-bloods? They are manifestly unworthy of your regard _or_ your continued service. Come now, Tanusha… end this foolishness, and resume your rightful place as a Kyrano."

He gestured, waving negligently with one beringed hand. Immediately, Kayo could see her projected brothers, Scott and John. The one was being slowly crumpled beneath a giant steel piston. The other had his back turned, but she could see an atmosphere sensor, reporting that his air pressure had dropped to half Earth normal and falling.

Kayo's hands clenched to fists at her sides. In their pride, neither of her brothers were crying out. _They_ wouldn't give him that satisfaction, and neither would Kayo. A stupid tear ran down her face, but the Hood was too busy gloating to notice.

"As you can see, Tanusha, your "brothers" are very much in my power. Nor shall the others succeed in awakening their father before my bombs send them shrieking into oblivion. But, regard… I am not _entirely_ without mercy. Join me, dear child, and I shall allow you to choose which of your adopted siblings you wish to keep as a lobotomized pet, and which you prefer to have painlessly euthanized. A generous offer, by the standards of our kind. Say the word, Tanusha, and one of them, at least, shall live. Persist in your pointless rebellion, and all five ravaged corpses will be delivered to your doorstep by tomorrow's dawn. Your decision?"

Kayo's face hardened. Her green eyes narrowed with paid and hatred. She loved Scott and John, both… and knew very well that neither would choose a mindless shadow 'life' over their own death. She spat at her uncle's image. Not striking anything, of course… he wasn't actually present… but making her feelings known.

"You… you had my mother and father _killed_!" she raged, voice shaking with anguish. "Only reason I didn't… didn't die, too, was because M- Momma put me in that hole! She… she put stuff in front, when the machines came… she tried to hide me! _But I saw everything!"_

Her uncle cocked a dark eyebrow. In the same silky, urbane voice as ever, he said,

"Merely business, Tanusha. Your father, though my elder, had proven himself unfit to lead our family. Thus, by quorum vote, he and his homo-typical bride were eliminated from the bloodline. Your survival was sheer happenstance, capitalized upon by Jeff Tracy… all of which has left you unfortunately quite addled. This can be remedied, however."

Kayo shook her head violently.

"No. _Screw you._ Not ever. Not for any price. I will _never_ stand beside the man who betrayed my parents. _Never!"_

The Hood sighed theatrically, saying,

"Tanusha, you disappoint me. I would far rather have you join the organization willingly. It looks better than having you brought in shackled and raging. Be assured, however, that I _shall_ have my… What? _NO!_ Not possible!"

Her uncle had swung away from her, glaring to one side with an expression of rage and confusion. Then, like a candle, his image flickered out. Kayo could feel the force field which held her, beginning to slip. She somersaulted upward, grasping at seemingly empty air, and caught hold of a gently-curved metal surface. The edge of a wing, it felt like. A wild scramble and leg-swing catapulted her onto her uncle's drone, which was becoming visible as its power cut off. Like all such craft, it switched to safety mode once robbed of contact with base. Then, it began spiraling downward.

Kayo rode the thing like a surfboard; hair flying loose, body swaying and leaning as the landscape rose spinning to meet her. Couldn't help laughing, as well, because the voice was gone, and her brothers had found some way to fight back. It was them… it had to be! And they would not do battle, alone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The Hood's stronghold, deep in the Gobi Desert-_

Scott's space had shrunk from closet to low crawlway, and still collapsing. Soon the piston-mounted ceiling had forced him into a crouch. It continued to press unstoppably downward; smashing like a 6-G launch. With time running short and the camera lens at last out of sight, he let his heart say its goodbyes, then got to work.

Like his brother, the pilot had brought along a little insurance, in the form of an electronic multi-tool, tucked away in one of his uniform's thigh pockets. The sash, of course, was gone… but the Hood's vacant goons hadn't known enough to check through his flight suit.

The multi-tool was a little wonder based on Parker's safe-cracking device; something Scott Tracy was never without, because in his line of work, getting through locked doors in a hurry was a must. Looked a bit like an old Swiss Army knife, but with more "blades', and fast internet access.

Now, Scott pressed its electronic lock-pick to the tomb door's inner surface, about where he guessed its circuits might lie. He'd had a great deal of experience at this sort of thing, but every door was different, and he had maybe three minutes left before he was smeared like peanut butter. The tool's lock-pick program began attempting to negotiate with the door, while his space grew smaller, still.

At about the same time, less than fifty feet away, John stood braced in a tomb of his own, fighting to breathe. Already, he'd developed an icepick migraine, and his ears were throbbing. The suit's health monitor had dipped well into orange, but John ignored it.

The AI trap clung to the wall before him. Perfectly inert, at first, it came to life with a hornet-like humming sound, glowed briefly, then began to emit fiery red lines. Lighting-swift, the neon-bright circuits branched and spread across the tomb's inner surface, slashing through it like lasers. One moment, the astronaut was blacking out, his lungs swelling up. A heartbeat later, the vacuum chamber cracked apart like a shattered egg, spilling a gasping John Tracy. Sharp pain in his left ear told him that he'd ripped an ear drum. Stabbing pain everywhere _else_ told him he'd got the bends. Meanwhile, Eos had found a way through the jamming, and was uploading power so fast that he could barely process it all.

As those red, branching lines began to dissect the Hood's stronghold, John lurched to his feet and dove forward across the floor, dodging chunks of collapsing machinery. The rumble and dust came close to blinding and deafening him, but he kept moving, anyhow.

Across the room, the door had sprung open at last. Scott had about a foot and a half of space left in that rumbling, squealing compressor. And still, the piston pressed downward. He tried to wriggle free and get to his brother, only to be betrayed by that wounded and bloody leg. Got both arms out, meaning to drag himself forward, but now the piston was pressing down on his back, skull and ribs. Pushing with one foot, Scott managed to heave himself a few inches forward.

Then a pair of blue-gloved hands appeared around the bottom edge of the piston. Circuitry on the gloves told him it was John. His brother's suit must have shifted into overdrive, because he was able to hold the piston in place for a few precious seconds, denting the metal and allowing Scott to drag himself clear.

Once Scott was out, the astronaut let go of that heavy-ass piston, lost his balance and fell backward onto the buckling floor. The compressor crashed home with a resounding _**BOOM**_ , only just missing Scott's thrusting left foot. The pilot felt like he'd cracked a few ribs, but John had a nose _and_ ear bleed, and was coughing like a five-pack chain smoker.

"Hey, John," said the pilot, as increasingly larger chunks of building crashed down around them.

"Hey, Scott," his brother responded, helping him rise. That was all their conversation, for a bit. Too busy escaping to talk.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The corpse of Global-1, in high orbit-_

His jet pack was out of reserve gas, leaving him stranded in mid cabin, unable to do more than flail.

3… 2… 1

Gordon had shut his eyes and drawn a ragged deep breath, expecting to seed the cosmos like an exploding star. Foolishly, he could only think of Penelope, and how much he would have liked the chance to…

0…

Braced himself, hoping that Thunderbird 3 had at least got away clean. As a distant vibration and rumble coursed through the station, Gordon felt someone seize his right arm.

"Godfrey, hang on, Son!"

His eyes flew open. Got a confused impression of Captain Taylor hauling him toward an emergency escape hatch, at top old-guy speed. Weirdly, the hatch blew before Taylor could reach out to press the switch. Then the next one went, hurling Gordon and Taylor out into space along with Global-1's atmosphere. They tumbled wildly, but Taylor had managed to snap on a tether. Gordon found himself swinging around on the end of a taut, carbon-steel cable, with Uncle Lee at the other end.

Global-1 rose and set in his vision like a weird, blackened star. It was unzipping along its length; being torn apart by silent blossoms of flame, quickly doused by the vacuum. Behind that, lay a huge, serene, quarter-Earth; blue and white and so very far. Could not, at first, see…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3-_

"Where are they?!" shouted Virgil, one hand over the _'tube detach'_ control. "Are Gordon and Uncle Lee aboard, yet?"

Alarms were blaring and flashing all over the cockpit. Global-1 was tearing itself apart beneath them, and he _had_ to detach… but not without Gordon and Taylor.

"Alan! Are they…?"

"Not yet, Virgil," his brother replied from the hold, "but I'm picking up a couple of weak life signs outside, and the station's decompressing, _fast._ All that energy is disrupting the long-range comm, too. Can't raise either of them."

"Sh*t," Virgil muttered, trying to scan past the catastrophic destruction of Global-1. "It's them. It's gotta be."

Coming to a sudden decision, he called out,

"Secure the passengers, and send me those signals! We're going after them!"

Burning with the need to hurry, Virgil Tracy detached… almost tore loose… the evac tube. He gunned 3's rockets and cut sideways, heading for two tiny, whirling points in the blackness of space.

"Alan, we're gonna need your rocket board."

"On it, Virge. I'm in the airlock, right now. Put me in position, and they're good as rescued!"

They might be injured, or drifting out of range; dying and venting air into space, their lives measured in seconds, at best. All these possibilities occurred to Virgil as he yawed away from the disintegrating space station. Something peculiar happened as he hauled ass for his brother and uncle, though.

A red, glowing flash arced from Earth to the station, like lightning. For a moment, Virgil thought they'd been fired upon, but there was no concussion or blast. Instead, the red glow formed a belt around Global-1's midsection, just before the giant solar panel array. There, it seemed to constrict, severing the exploding half of the station from the part that was still mostly intact. Global-1 broke in two, jetting flame, atmosphere and debris into space. And the sight was no less impressive for being utterly silent.

Virgil rolled right five degrees, still hanging low over the station, following those two feeble signals like a blood hound. Even at idle speed, he got there in seconds, watching Global-1 swing sharply from underneath to right alongside.

Alan didn't wait for any sort of go-ahead to shoot from the airlock after his brother, and Captain Taylor. The outer hatch cycled open, revealing deadly blackness, pale stars and the blasted surface of Global-1; running with red streaks like St. Elmo's fire. But Alan had eyes and attention for nothing but his wrist monitor (which he'd tuned to Gordon's) and his ion-propelled "rocket board". Hovering in the airlock, his boot soles were clamped into braces, because magnets would have disrupted the ion flow. Speed and direction were controlled by his angle of lean, and a pair of palm-mounted buttons. Before the hatch finished opening, Alan was outside, and already hunting.

Just like surfing or skateboarding, back home, Alan was graceful and quick. Not stoked, though; too much danger to others, for that. The signal kept flickering in and out, as energy discharges from Global-1 just about drowned it. No problem. All he needed was to get close enough for a visual, and… _There!_

Swinging around each other, attached by a tether, like some giant-sized living bola, were his targets. Gordon's helmet lamp shown yellow-white in the pale Earthshine; Uncle Lee's was a strip of greenish LEDs. Both men were waving at him. Alan's grin nearly split his face.

"Hey, guys!" he joked exuberantly, swooping over. "Somebody call for a lift?"

"Alvin, you're about the welcomest thing I've seen since your dad's ugly mug, back in that station! Gotta admit, absence ain't improved him none."

Gordon covered his relief much better, actually managing to stretch and yawn.

"Guess so, if you're headed our way," he said, adding, "just hanging around out here, enjoying the view. Took a few shots for my webpage… answered some emails… nothing major."

"Uh-huh," said Alan, gliding over the tether's exact center of mass, and then allowing his board's snap-hook to capture it. "Well, sorry to interrupt all this relaxing downtime, but dad 'n them are gonna pop out of stasis any second now, and I'm about to have a hold full of mighty confused people. Think you could give me a hand?"

Gordon stopped joking to say,

"Plus, we've got to track Scott and John down, wherever the Hood's taken them. They might need help, Al."

"Yeppers," Alan nodded, urging his rocket board forward at quarter speed. No sense tugging the tether so hard that Gordon and Lee smacked together like castanets… funny as that would have been. "Grandma says they're out in the Gobi Desert, somewhere, so that's next on the Alan Tracy rescue circuit."

"Rescue?!" Gordon objected, being towed along like a skier. "For the record, this is _not_ a rescue, Junior! It's a pickup. I don't _get_ rescued. Period."

Captain Taylor chuckled.

"Yeah. We was fixing to float on home, any minute now. Settle down, Godfrey. Let your twin work. And someone tell Victor we're safe. He's flashing them lights like he thinks we're still out there, drifting."

Bubbles of joy and relief flooding his heart like champagne, Alan did just that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, the comm center-_

Lieutenant Kraft had already sent Union Jack out of the bay, out to deeper, more open water. In the event of attack, the ship had to be able to fight and maneuver, with or without her commander aboard. That was one less concern.

Like Grandma, Brains and the deeply absorbed Marines, she'd been following along as Virgil rescued the Global-1 crew with… okay… _some_ help from his brothers and Captain Taylor.

She was positively glowing. Even gave Max a brief pat, when the re-purposed rover chirped at her. A few feet away, Grandma was trying to raise Scott or John's wrist comms. There was some sort of interference blocking transmission. Nevertheless, she repeated urgently,

"Boys, they're all safe and accounted for, up on Global-1. Do what you got to, and get on back home, you hear?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In the air, over Greater Eurasia-_

Penelope, dressed for action, now in a brown leather catsuit and high-heeled boots, her blonde hair swept back in mum's diamond clips, was drumming acrylic nails and striving for peace. This was difficult, as Scott Tracy required a great deal of looking after… and the Hood was as dangerous a foe as they had. Worse than the Mechanic, even.

"Parker," she said, as the war-blasted landscaped rolled past beneath them. Her driver glanced back, meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror.

"Yes, Milady?"

"I presume that we are, in fact, making best speed?"

"Indeed, Milady."

"…and that FAB-1 has a full complement of missiles?"

"Yes, Milady," he replied, soothingly. "Don't fret yourself over Master Scott. Ee's a dab 'and at gettin' out o' scrapes, and ee's Master John with 'im, too. I'd reckon the two of them are just settin' down to a nice 'ot cuppa, with the 'Ood wrapped up like a parcel, for their tea tray."

Penny bit her lip, then nodded back at her greying old driver.

"Of course, Parker. How silly of me to worry. Doubtless, the dear boys have everything well under control. Nevertheless, _do_ make haste. I have never yet encountered a situation which a woman could not put to rights more swiftly and effectively than any man, no matter _how_ talented."

…and my, _was_ he talented!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

 _The Gobi Desert, inside the Hood's collapsing stronghold-_

Helping his brother to walk, John said,

"To quote the famous Scott Tracy… ready to kick some ass?"

Scott grinned at him, despite his damaged leg, sore ribs and dust-rasping throat.

"Oh, _hell_ yeah!" he replied. "Let's go nail the sonuvabitch; give dad a real welcome-home present!"

Not far away, a tattooed and muscular young man stood off in dusty shadow, watching their progress. Most of his cybernetics had been torn away, and his goggles ripped off, but the Mechanic remained a cyborg, and therefore dangerous. He was also unemployed, having been terminated and scheduled for execution in a "fitting manner" of his own. Only the Tracys' interference had prevented that. All of this officially made the limping brothers somebody else's problem. Yes, he hated them… but he was no longer being paid, and so his former client was free to deal with the pair alone… if he could.

Shrugging, the Mechanic turned away. There would be another time, when he was better prepared to deal with Scott and John Tracy. Now, all he wanted was out. A step backward, then another, saw him melt away amid chaos and collapse; no stranger to either.

Outside at last, the brothers spotted their quarry a few yards away, attempting to slip aboard Thunderbird 2. Unfortunately for the Hood, Virgil's Bird could protect herself from intrusion with powerful electric shocks. She did so now, sending the dusty, bedraggled man staggering backward. His fallen henchmen lay collapsed all about him like dropped puppets, having apparently ceased to function.

John had kept his emotions in check since the Hood's taunting broadcast, back on the Island. But looking at the man, now, seeing in his mind's eye O'Bannon being struck down and threatened… seeing _dad_ … something happened.

He stopped thinking, released Scott, and lunged forward. Seized the man, who was shouting something that he didn't hear and didn't care to. Lifted him high overhead and threw him, hard, to the stony ground. Kicked him, then, with force enough to boot him clear off the dirt and send him flying like a broken toy. Leapt, took hold, again, and lifted the stunned older man off his feet by the shirt front. Punched him, heard something break. Would have done it, again. But then his arm was seized. Took him a moment to see and understand Scott. Enraged, in pain from decompression sickness, and afraid for Captain O'Bannon, he could not, at first, comprehend what his brother was shouting.

"…can't! Listen to me, John! Have… you ever killed anybody? Have you?!"

 _That_ question got through, and was surprising enough to stop the astronaut in his tracks. Dropping the Hood, he shook his head, no.

"I have! It was that, or watch Alan die. Sniper, up on a ledge, with a high-powered rifle. He was too busy aiming to notice me, when I came around the outcrop. I… pushed him. The shot went wild, and he fell."

Scott was breathing hard, still gripping John's bloodied arm, his blue eyes clouded and miserable.

"The GDF thought he just slipped, and… and I didn't tell them. Didn't tell _anyone_ , until now. Listen to me, Little Brother… you don't want to do this. He isn't a threat, now. Let the GDF put him away for the rest of his life, in stasis. John… you're not a murderer, and that's what it would be: murder. He's helpless. We've won. Let it go."

After a second or two, John found words.

"He'll escape, Scott. He's done it, before."

"Then we'll deal with it, like _we've_ done, before. Take a walk, John. Start stacking those goons of his, for the GDF. _Don't_ do something that's gonna get you locked up and brain-scraped. He isn't worth it, Little Brother."

Whatever John might have said in reply was lost in the sudden de-cloaking of Thunderbird Shadow, almost directly overhead. Shrieking like a hawk, the small, dark Bird banked sharply in for a landing, bearing Kayo to her wounded brothers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, the passenger compartment-_

He awoke from a nightmare of fire and pain and crunching metal. Of spilt fuel and an icy mountainside. Of the smirking Hood, reaching into the shattered cockpit to slap something against his torn, bleeding forehead.

He struggled to rise, fighting restraints and a couch of some sort, fighting to breathe with a chest full of cracked ribs and a badly wrenched back. Then, Lee Taylor appeared, hanging sideways over his couch, big as life and twice as ugly.

"Whoa, there, Jeffrey! Cool your jets before you tear them straps, or burst a blood vessel. You're safe."

 _Safe?_ The Colonel looked sharply around himself; taking in his old friend, Lee, the cylindrical cabin, lack of gravity, injured crowd, and that familiar symphony of rocket sounds.

"Three…" he whispered, in a hoarsely deep voice. "This is Thunderbird 3… where's John?"

"He doesn't fly 3, anymore, Dad. She's mine, now," said a very young, nervous voice.

Colonel Tracy looked for the speaker, saw a skinny teenaged kid with golden-blond hair and wide blue eyes. Beside him, arms folded across his chest, hazel eyes locked on Jeff's own, was a young man with sandy blond hair and a swimmer's build. Almost, they looked like…

"Alan…? Gordon…? But, you're so… big."

Alan had been ten years old, just a nightmare ago; Gordon, fourteen.

"Yes, Sir," said Gordon, drifting closer. "It's us. We, um…" he glanced to his younger brother for help.

"…We're glad to see you, Sir," Alan finished for Gordon, blinking rapidly at something lodged in his eyes. "It's been a _really_ long time."


	24. Chapter 24

As a friend of mine used to say, "It's all over but the shouting". Thanks. It's been fun re-visiting my favorite rescuers. (And thank you to Tikatu and Bow Echo for their good ideas.)

 **24**

 _Thunderbird 3, the cockpit-_

Captain Taylor had eased himself out of the passenger cabin, after one brief stop to make sure that O'Bannon was safely strapped in. She was a mess, and would require medical attention, but there was a station doctor present, and nobody wanted to waste time getting to Scott and John. Their vote had been unanimous: help the boys.

Now, gliding into the cockpit by scooting along from one hand-hold to the next, Lee Taylor went up to hover beside Jeff's complex, artistic middle kid.

"Hey, Vic," he greeted the big, dark-haired youth. "Why don't we trade spots, so's you can go on back and say hello to your dad? Godfrey n' Alvin would prob'ly appreciate the backup."

The pilot flipped a switch, released the fuel mix controls, and turned in his seat to look up at Taylor.

"Dad wants to see me?" he asked, his brown eyes more worried than pleased.

"'Course he does," insisted Lee. "He's just a little disoriented, is all. You would be, too, if you'd just slept your way through six years of your kids' lives. Now, get down there, give him a firm handshake, make eye-contact, and speak up. Timid ain't the way, with Jeff Tracy. _Confident,_ Vic. Be confident."

"Right," said Virgil, unstrapping to float up out of his seat. This caused his stomach to do all sorts of unfortunate and complicated things, making him hate space even worse than before. "Confident. Um… Uncle Lee, got a question for you."

Taylor had flipped himself expertly into the pilot's seat and begun strapping in; blue-grey eyes, in their web of creases, never leaving the controls.

"If you're about to question my piloting skills, Kid, do us both a favor, and zip it. H*ll, I helped _design_ half these systems! The rig ain't been built that Lee Cooper Taylor can't fly. Satisfied?"

Virgil floated there sideways, one hand on the copilot's seat, trying to hold himself steady on that crazy, zero-G theme park ride.

"Never doubted you, Sir. It's not that. It's just… um… would you be proud of me, if you were my dad? I mean… I never went far in athletics, or joined the military, or anything, so…"

Taylor stopped resetting controls to look over at young Tracy. Nope. He _wasn't_ joking, or fishing for praise, either. That had been a serious question, and the kid was actually nervous.

"Vic, for the last six years, you boys have just about _been_ my sons… and, h*ll, yeah, I'm proud! Even little what's-her-name… _Tina_ , that's it… even you sister's a hard-charger. Balls to the wall, all the way. None of you boys got anythin' to worry about. You're just gettin' reacquainted, is all. Better?"

Virgil heaved a big sigh, and nodded.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. That means a lot."

They struck palms, which unfortunately sent Virgil skidding right off to collide with the beeping, flashing overhead. ( _Really_ hated space.) After a second to calm his empty stomach, and reorient, the big pilot headed on back.

 _'Confident,'_ he reminded himself, already hearing their dad's deep, booming voice. _'Just getting reacquainted, is all.'_

Colonel Jeff Tracy had insisted that the station doctor treat everyone else, before him. Now, at last, he was getting his ribs strapped up, and those six-year-old burns salved. He was a big man; as tall as John, but with Virgil's muscular build. His iron-grey hair was wavy and thick, and his brown eyes alert… but sad, and a little puzzled.

He spotted Virgil as the young pilot was hovering at the hatch, one hand on its rim to keep himself from drifting. Jeff looked, passed on, then did a startled double-take.

"Virgil…?!" he said, wonderingly. "Come here, Son. Let me have a look at you."

"Yes, Sir. Coming."

Pushing himself into the cabin, Virgil glided forward, repeating to himself: _'Firm handshake, direct eye-contact, speak up.'_ Figuring that he couldn't do better than to channel Scott, he put out his right hand and started to say,

"Welcome back, Sir."

…but forgot that stopping, in microgravity, is a whole lot harder than starting. His father had to brace against the bulkhead and catch him, while Global-1's doctor flinched aside, and med-gear went flying in all directions. Gordon and Alan were nearby, and they darted up to help stabilize the confused, off-balance Earth-pounder, who looked like he wanted to crawl off and die.

Jeff Tracy, before, would have barked a stern, forceful reprimand and then delivered an exhaustive space-motion lecture; Jeff Tracy, now, just sort of ruefully smiled, saying,

"Takes some getting used to, doesn't it, Son? First three times I went up, I thought I'd puke myself hollow. Taylor spent the entire trip laughing at me, rank, or no rank. You get over it after a while, though."

Then, once all of that bouncing gear was collected, and the cabin fell silent once more, Jeff went on, saying,

"You're all staring at me like I've sprouted three heads. Okay, well…" he put a hand up and began rubbing hard at the back of his neck, staring into the past. "It's like this, boys: I was crashing. Couldn't control the Bird, couldn't eject, couldn't call for help. Nothing worked, nobody answered but the Hood… and all I could think of was you guys. How you'd already lost your mother, and now you were going to lose me… how hard that was going to be on you boys, and your sister. And I said, _'Please, give me another chance. Don't take me away from them. I'll do better.'_ And… here I am. But, six years too late. Maybe there's no such thing as a second chance, after all."

And then, he swung himself to face away from them all, wincing a bit at the pain from his ribs. The boys looked at each other, their expressions changing. Then Virgil reached out, put a hand on his father's big, drooping shoulder, and turned him around again.

"Dad…" he said, fighting to keep his voice level, "you're _back!"_

And then he embraced Colonel Tracy, who was quickly tag-teamed _en masse_ , as Gordon and Alan piled on top, too. Up in the cockpit, Captain Taylor smiled and switched off the cabin monitor.

"Now, that's more like it," he said aloud. Then, as a sudden thought struck him, "Well… looks like I'm out one extra-large step-family. Guess me and Alphy are gonna get cozy, again. Things was gettin' kind of cold between us, but there's no place like home, in a pinch, and the old slag-heap wouldn't last a week, without me."

According to the Nav computer, they were about ten minutes away from Mongolia, and the Hood. Figured he could wait five to tell Jeff and his boys, though.

"Give 'em a little more time together," he advised himself. "After six years apart, they deserve it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Late afternoon, the Hood's shattered stronghold-_

Kayo landed her Bird. The girl was out and racing forward just as soon as she could lock her wheels and pop the canopy. John came to meet her, leaving Scott to hobble behind him, braced on a makeshift crutch. The cold, dry air was like a slap, after Tracy Island, but Kayo ignored it, and hurried to join her brothers. She'd brought her med kit along, figuring that the two would need patching up; nor was she wrong. The first words out of her mouth,

"God, you look awful… Crispy-fried crap, both of you!" Probably weren't the most politic, but she softened them by throwing her arms around first John and then Scott, and nuzzling their necks. Still smelt like her brothers; just sweat-drenched, exhausted and battered. Not very talkative, either. Scott had lost blood, and John appeared to be having balance problems.

"Right," she said, starting to open the case. "Who's first? Which of you needs the most immediate help?"

"Well, actually…" They looked at each other, and then Scott pointed to her uncle, who lay unconscious; passed out on the rocky ground in handcuffs, just a few yards away.

"Like h*ll," she snapped. "He can rot. I'd bandage and splint the mechanic, first. Now, sit down before you fall down, both of you!"

And then she set to work; first stanching and binding up Scott's leg wound, then seeing to John, whose problems were more complex.

"You need oxygen," she told him, "in a hyperbaric chamber. But for now, let's get you aboard Thunderbird 2, and…"

And nothing, because Thunderbird 3 came gliding down from the sky, just then, on full impellers and soft rockets. She settled to the ground about a quarter of a mile away, to the west. After that, nothing could have induced her brothers to remain seated, or worse, to lie down. Not with their father nearby. She'd have had to break both their legs, and even then, they'd have fought their way upright, together. Things got even more complicated, afterward, when Lady Penelope, a swarm of news drones, and the GDF arrived, but for a while, they had privacy.

Jeff Tracy walked out with his best friend and three youngest sons, crossing the desert to meet the older two, and his beautiful young daughter. Scott and John were less of a shock than their brothers, having been already young men when he'd crashed. Scott's jaw was a bit firmer, possibly… and tall, willowy John had filled out considerably… but they were still recognizably the sons he'd left behind. Except bruised, abraded and almost too tired to stand up.

Tanusha, on the other hand, had gone from twelve to eighteen in an eye-blink. She stood poised like a startled doe, as Jeff strode forward with Lee Taylor, Virgil, Gordon and Alan. The boys and Captain Taylor were carrying their helmets (swinging them, in Alan's case). Jeff stood out among them in his torn and burnt IR uniform, a big smile on his weathered face; taller than everyone present, but John.

Kayo stared. Whispered, "Dad….!" Then, dropping her med kit, she screamed, _"Daddy!"_ and broke into a full run, skimming the stony ground like a swallow.

"There she is!" he exclaimed. _"There's_ my Princess!" And, ribs or no ribs, Jeff scooped up and embraced his daughter. She was crying openly; not genteel, Lady Penelope tears, but noisy, ugly, gulping sobs. The way a frightened, lost child cries, when help has arrived, at last. Jeff had to clear his throat a few times, to speak without breaking down, himself.

"I know it's been a long time, Sweetie, but…"

"You're home… you're _home!"_ she repeated, as six painful years sloughed away, returning the father she'd believed gone forever.

Jeff gave her another tight hug, then set Kayo aside and walked over to Scott and John, who'd been standing uncertainly nearby. He noticed that John, who'd been subtly propping Scott, stepped aside a little. So as not to embarrass him, probably. Was he really so harshly remembered, Jeff wondered?

Scott hobbled forward first, leaning on his makeshift crutch, then stopped and extended a hand.

"Welcome back, Sir. I'll make a full report just as soon as we're wheels-up… or… whenever you say, Sir."

Jeff took his eldest son's hand, gazing into that rigid face, those tense blue eyes. Instead of shaking Scott's hand, he clasped it. Then, placing a big hand on the pilot's left shoulder, he said,

"It can wait, Son. Are you all right? Lee's filled me in on what's been happening… what you two were up against, for my sake and for Global-1. There's a doctor on board. Let's get you sewn up, _both_ of you."

Next, he turned to John, who stood there, perfectly still, his face and blue-green eyes unreadably blank.

"I'm sorry, Sir," said the young astronaut, very quietly. "I should have been…"

"John, _stop._ " Said his father, coming to stand before his second-born son. "You gave up a baseball career to follow my footsteps, and then, when your family needed you, you came back. There's nothing to be sorry for. Lee's told me what you six have accomplished. How hard you've worked to keep my 'project' alive. I'm so proud of you all."

He put his hands on John's shoulders, drew him close for a moment, and then let him go. His second had never been much for physical contact. Surprisingly, though, John reached forward to brush the back of Jeff's hand. Then, jerking a thumb over one shoulder, he said,

"We, um… we got you a present."

Scott grinned, at that, a mischievous, triumphant glow in his bright blue eyes.

"Heh! Yeah. 'Fraid it got a little banged up in shipping, Dad, but we figure you'll like it, anyhow."

With Scott and John leading the way at a fast hobble, the family and Captain Taylor walked back over to where the unconscious Hood lay cuffed on the ground beside Thunderbird 2. Jeff's face changed; flashing from wrath, to sorrow, to stern determination almost faster than the others could follow. Kept his response light, though. His sons had been joking, after all. Maybe.

"If it's all the same to you, Boys, I'll be re-gifting this one. Colonel Casey's getting an early birthday present, this year."

Gordon had come over to stand beside Scott. Looking over the fallen Hood, he uttered a low whistle and shook his head.

" _Wheew_ … Someone worked him over, _hard."_

"John," said the pilot, in a low whisper. "But shut up about it. Never happened."

"Got it, Leader-man. Dead and buried. ND… or NDO?"

Scott considered for a moment.

"NDO," he decided, meaning, _'Not Discussed Outside (the family)'_ as opposed to just, _'Not Discussed'_ , period.

About that time, the first GDF lander arrived, along with Lady Penelope, and a buzzing horde of news drones. A few pictures from that afternoon became very famous, very fast: Jeff Tracy back from the dead, standing with his son, Scott, and best friend Lee Taylor, over the prone, battered form of the Hood…. A scowling Kayo, flipping off the camera… Gordon Tracy, standing in heroic profile… and John Tracy, a gloved hand on one of Thunderbird 3's boarding lift rails, looking back over his shoulder as he ascended the shining red rocket.

That was the only shot they got of him, too, because John disliked cameras and crowd scenes almost as much as Kayo did… and because there was someone he needed to see. Stalking within, John went down to the passenger cabin, and (after shaking a lot of hands and submitting to dozens of selfies) past that, to medical.

O'Bannon lay on a biometric fold-down cot, with her eyes closed and her dark auburn hair all over the place. Bulkhead monitor above the cot listed her injuries: broken right collar bone, fractured ribs L3 and L4, multiple contusions and lacerations, strained muscles, dehydration… but nothing worse.

John released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Thinking her asleep, he pulled a jump seat out of the bulkhead, and settled in by the captain's bed. Dropped a light kiss on her forehead, which caused her grey eyes to fly open. Horrified, she brought a hand up to hide her face, trying to block his view of a black eye, split lip and swollen jaw.

"Tracy, you're alive!" Then, "Go away!" she ordered, turning her face to one side.

"No," he responded. "Afraid I can't do that, O'Bannon."

Reaching over, he took her hand away from her damaged face. Their fingers became complicated together, interlacing and squeezing tight.

"The man who did this is lying outside, in cuffs. He's still alive… but I can fix that in a quick d*mn hurry, if you want me to."

Startled, Captain O'Bannon glanced at John, read his blue-green eyes, and saw that the astronaut was dead serious. Very unprofessional tears threatened to spill over, but she blinked them away, not wishing to seem weak. After a second, she even managed to smile, but it hurt her lip, so she had to stop.

"I don't want to talk about him, or think about him; not now, not ever again. But… if I can't chase you off, Tracy… I'd feel better if you stayed here, for a while. I'm so tired…"

John kissed her forehead, again. Then, very gently, her mouth.

"Go to sleep, Ridley," he told her. "I'll be right here. I promise."

Her hand tightened on his, then loosened in sleep, but John kept hold. Just watching her. Just being there.

Outside, Lady Penelope had pulled out a lace handkerchief to dab at Scott's face.

"Oh, dear…," she said, wiping ineffectually at blood, dirt and sweat. "You look a perfect fright, Darling. What's wanted is a nice, hot soak, followed by a light gourmet meal and cocktails, in the Spanish garden."

Growing enthusiastic about the plan, Penelope tiptoed up to kiss Scott's dimpled cheek, almost toppling him. (Because he was too proud to use a crutch around the woman he loved, that's why.) She continued,

"Now your father's returned, you shall doubtless receive more vacation time, and I, for one, know _precisely_ where it ought to be enjoyed!"

Scott smiled, slipping a muscular arm around her lithe waist.

"Well, yeah…" he agreed, "but I can't spend _all_ of my time in bed. Duty calls, you know."

Penny laughed softly, drawing him nearer and playfully biting his lower lip. Kissed him deeply, then shifted to nibbling at the lobe of his ear, murmuring,

"Let someone else save the world for a few days, Darling. We've earned a bit of a respite, I think. And, besides…" Penelope stepped away and stretched as sensuously as a cat, fully aware of the effect produced by all that straining-tight leather. "I am in dire need of exercise, having missed out on the action, this time. Wouldn't want me growing bored and sloppy, now would we, _hmmm_ …?"

With motivation like that, Scott vowed to get healed within the week, if he had to steal Brains' nanobots and inject them, himself.

Jeff, meanwhile, had been speaking quietly to the newly-arrived Colonel Casey. His expression was one of utter disbelief.

"What do you mean, I've been reactivated?!" he hissed, keeping his voice down because of those d*mn, darting news cams. "Linda, I'm _retired."_

Casey shook her head, her dark hair in its smooth, tight chignon catching the fading light, her brown eyes alight with rich humor.

"Jeff, you know as well as I do, that retirement's a myth… one that can be revoked at the World Council's whim." Then, leaning forward, she went on to say, "We need you, Jeff Tracy. World Gov's popularity is at an all-time low, and _you_ are a well-loved folk hero. I think the council's hoping some of that golden-boy cachet will rub off on _them,_ by association. And anyhow… just think of all the good you can do for International Rescue, from inside the halls of power. No more trouble from the brass, when you _are_ the brass. Nothing else like the Hwa situation could happen with you on watch, now could it?"

Jeff sighed, staring glumly down at the desert floor.

"Just got back…" he muttered. Then, looking up, again. "How long till I'm due to report?"

"You have a week," she told him, clapping a hand to the legend's broad, blue-clad shoulder. "Make the most of it, Jeff. I won't say a word to your family until you give me the go-ahead. Look forward to serving with you again, Jeff. It's been a long time." Glancing aside as her men loaded a shackled figure onto their medical grav-cart, she said, "Now, about the Hood's condition…"

"He fell downstairs," Jeff assured her, earnest as an Eagle Scout. "A lot."

"I see," Casey nodded. "Well, just for future reference, tell the _'stairs'_ that any repetition of such anti peace-and-union behavior will have them hauled up on charges, and sentenced to six month's re-education."

"Understood, Colonel Casey," said Jeff, his mouth a grim, hard line. "The stairs will mind their behavior with prisoners, from now on. I promise you."

"See that they do. And… welcome back, Jeff. I've missed you."

The small, nervous kiss blind-sided Jeff Tracy, completely.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Et voila, je fin!


	25. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The GDF removed Global-1's crew for treatment at the nearest base hospital, including two crewmen who'd failed to revive from stasis. There were a few revival techniques which might yet be tried… but not much hope was held out. Only Captain O'Bannon remained in Thunderbird 3 when the family returned to Tracy Island, because Jeff requested the favor, and World Gov owed them a few. Lee Taylor went with them, as well, since they were his ride back up to Shadow Alpha base.

"See you back at the ranch, boys," Jeff had told them all.

Then, they took off; all three Birds in the air, together. Virgil resumed piloting Thunderbird 2, with Lee Taylor and Gordon along for company. Alan, of course, flew Thunderbird 3, ferrying John and O'Bannon down in medical. Jeff rode home in Thunderbird 1 with Scott (who actually offered to let him fly, so great was his joy and relief at getting his father back). That stiff, swollen leg made piloting difficult, but Scott managed, reaching the island second, because Alan had looped up into space, where he was faster.

On the flight over, Scott had filled his dad in on six years of family gossip; stuff that Uncle Lee didn't know about. Mentioned Penelope once or twice, just sort of feeling the old man out, in case work relationships were frowned upon, now. Not that he would have given her up, you understand… not without a fight… just that he would have had to work _really_ hard to bring dad around to his side. But Jeff didn't say much. Just listened, mostly; grunting from time to time, or saying, "uh-huh" and "oh, really", where appropriate.

Scott ended up maybe talking too much, just because he wasn't accustomed to having a conversation with his father. Cross-examination, yes; actual talk, without a ball or a fishing pole in hand, no.

They made it home in less than an hour, having left Mongolia at sunset, and reaching a Tracy Island well advanced in darkness. Brains ordered them all to the leeward side for their landings, saying that he'd made a breakthrough with the house and launch bays, and needed a bit more time till the areas were ready for action. Another time, they might have been curious, but everyone was simply too exhausted to bite, that evening. You can only take so much before you drop in your tracks or fall asleep standing up, after all.

In any case, they made it back, then followed the seaside path on home. Once the engine roar faded away, it was a quiet night, filled with rustling branches and chirruping tree frogs. Grandma Tracy rushed out to meet them all with Max; first greeting her grandsons, then facing her own newly-returned boy.

"Well, Jeffrey," she began, brushing at his hair and face with light, moth-like touches. "Well, then…"

He pulled her into a tight, long hug, murmuring,

"Good to see you, Ma. Good to be home."

She held her son tightly, swaying back and forth a bit, as though rocking an infant. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Kraft had raced over from a different direction entirely, having been placing Marines at their remote sentry posts. Virgil looked up at the sound of her voice, saw her, flung his arms wide, and then lifted the hurtling woman completely off her feet, swinging her around in a wide, laughing circle. Overjoyed, she punched him, once back on her own feet, again. At least, until she caught sight of Colonel Tracy. At that point, Kraft went completely rigid, leaping away from Virgil as though she'd been scalded.

Had Lieutenant Kraft been hauled before the World Council, she could not have looked more uptight… except that she was out of uniform, still; wearing Virgil's big plaid shirt, high top sneakers, and a pair of cuffed jeans.

"Sir!" she barked, standing at full attention.

Jeff hastened to put her at ease, despite the fact that she tried to salute him. Thrusting his hand out for a shake, he said,

"Lieutenant Kraft? Scott's told me how much you and Union Jack have done to cover defense, during our crisis. I want you to know how grateful I am, Lieutenant… and how good it is to see Virgil so happy. Be at ease, young lady. We're not a very formal bunch, around here."

Scott coughed, to cover a sudden chorus of bewildered noises and blank stares. For twenty years, Jeff Tracy had striven to raise the perfect military show-family. "Formal" was putting it mildly. Virgil alone didn't react. Instead, he draped a muscular arm across Emma's shoulders and drew her in close. She reached up and took his hand, leaning her blondish-brown head against Virgil's chest.

By this time, John had reached the infirmary with Captain O'Bannon in his arms. Couldn't find a handy grav-cart, but she was too blurry and ill to complain about being carried, so, no matter. Brains met him inside, coming to the bed on which John had placed Ridley. The engineer began firing up his machinery, scanning the captain's battered body from top to toe. They could hear Scott being herded along by Kayo to another partitioned bed, but John's mind was elsewhere.

He watched as Hackenbacker got the patient hooked up through various ports in her orange spacesuit liner… all that she'd been wearing in the cramped locker where Captain Taylor had found her. The infirmary's med scanners presented the same harsh picture of Ridley's condition that 3's had; multiple fractures, lacerations and contusions, exhaustion, exposure and dehydration. But again, nothing worse. Having gotten her to the best help he knew of, John could do nothing more but watch and wait.

"Sh- She would, ah… would doubtless recover, with t- time," said the engineer; half to himself, half to John.

Suppressing another coughing fit, the astronaut looked closely at Brains.

"I hear a ' _but'_ ," he said. "What's at the end of that sentence, Brains?"

Hackenbacker made a small, harried gesture, lifting a hand to his temple as though calming a sudden headache.

"B- But I have the, ah… the means t- to speed matters, considerably. The s- same as we used upon you."

Hackenbacker's tired brown eyes flicked from his friend's face to a nearby instrument tray, upon which lay a hypodermic needle filled with seething, metallic-grey fluid. John followed his gaze, and worked out what the engineer was trying to say.

"One dose left?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough not to carry beyond the two of them. Brains shrugged helplessly.

"P- Perhaps. The technology is, ah… is v- very new, and my nanobots are designed for fine engine repair, not m- microsurgery. I c- cannot be certain wh- what constitutes proper dosage, John."

The astronaut's gaze shifted back to O'Bannon, twitching with fever and pain in her sleep. Then he cocked his head to listen as Scott bit back curses in the next room, getting that hideous leg-wound attended to. Brains merely waited, saying nothing.

After a moment or two, John whispered,

"Split it. It'll work on both, or it won't. This isn't a decision I can make any other way, Brains."

Hackenbacker nodded, started to reach for the needle, then paused. Peering at John, he said,

"And y- yourself? You are, ah… are not at all w- well, either, my friend. P- Perhaps a third to each?"

But John shook his head, no.

"Can't risk it, Brains. I'll be all right. Just need to sit down. Take care of O'Bannon and Scott, then, I'll… um… wear an oxygen mask, or something."

Hackenbacker's expression grew firm. He seized a nearby chair, hauled it around to O'Bannon's bedside, squealing its legs across the concrete floor. Then, he pointed at it, gazing squarely at John.

"Th- Then you will rest, _now_."

The astronaut obeyed, nearly collapsing into the offered seat. Then, nodding, Brains picked up that needle, selected one of the captain's suit delivery ports, and injected half of the nanobot load. She jerked awake, saying,

"Tracy… wha's at?"

"Tetanus shot," John lied. "You can't be too careful, with all of that weaponized crap floating around. Relax, O'Bannon. Go back to sleep. Everything's under control."

Her questing hand patted around as though seeking his, so John reached over and took it. In the meantime, Brains had given him another significant nod. Now, carefully withdrawing the needle, the engineer ejected its tip into a sharps bin, slotted in another and strode off to deal with Scott (who did not seem to be enjoying Kayo's attentions). A grunt and muttered curse from the next room indicated that _someone_ had gotten their half-load of nanobots… but John couldn't have sworn as to who.

At some point, that night, somebody brought him a blanket and oxygen mask, but the mask wasn't very comfortable, so he didn't wear it for long. Also in the night, a tiny, blinking red light opened up like an eye on his wrist comm. Evidently, he'd made a friend.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Outside, a few hours later-_

Colonel Tracy couldn't sleep. From his perspective, it had been less than twenty-four hours since he'd lost control of his plane and crashed into the side of a glaciered mountain. Not quite a day since the taunting Hood had found him struggling to escape from his shattered, burning cockpit, and placed him in stasis. For Jeff Tracy, no time at all had passed between losing consciousness in the wreckage, and coming to in Thunderbird 3. He'd closed his eyes in one situation, opened them in another, and in the meantime, the world had changed. Six years had flown by, his project had flowered, and his kids had grown up without him. No… Jeff couldn't sleep. Instead, he wandered back down to the landing site.

The Island's leeward side was dry and rocky, with no real beach to speak of; just a cliff of black lava, and turbulent water. Jeff stood at the land's ending, wind at his back, listening to the booming crash, the sucking roar of the ocean, below. For something to do, he picked out familiar stars and planets, but even that couldn't distract him for long. In jeans and a tee shirt, now, shaven and washed, he was almost cold.

There was a bonfire at his back. Lee was still over there, entertaining Gordon, Alan and Tanusha with wild stories of Mars, in the "good old days". Jeff had begged off to answer a call of nature, but he mostly just needed to be alone with loss and regret.

Then Scott appeared, limping a bit on his injured leg, but walking without a crutch. Jeff nodded approvingly. Fresh sea air and clean island living did the trick, every time, he told himself; it was why he'd brought his family out here, away from the poisoned States, in the first place. Naturally, Scott was feeling better.

As soon as the young man was near enough, Jeff called to him, saying,

"Morning, Son."

"Morning, Sir. Couldn't sleep?"

Jeff shook his head, though it was barely light out.

"No rest in me, tonight… but I needed to talk to you, anyhow, Scott. Need to tell you a few things, and now's as good a time as any."

His oldest son was mostly a silhouette in the pale pre-dawn light; a low voice and a worried presence.

"I'm listening, Sir."

Jeff nodded again, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and started walking along the cliff's edge, pacing his words to the music of water, wind and footfall. Scott fell into step beside him.

"Right…" Jeff said. "Might as well start from the beginning. You know that before the conflicts, there was a lot of weapons research being done on both sides… some of it biological."

"Yes, Sir," Scott replied. "Weaponized flu and genomic pathogens… plus some illegal cyborg development."

"Exactly. Well… some of the local government research programs were aimed at producing a tougher, stronger breed of soldier. Not intended to mix with the general populace, at all… just to defend their nation's interests in war. This is need-to-know information, Son, not the sort of thing that World Gov wants to spread around. Up till now, you've had no need to hear these things, but… just bear with me. There's a point. Bottom line: some of those meta-soldiers didn't like the hand they'd been dealt, and so they took it upon themselves to rebel and break free."

Scott uttered a low, awed whistle.

" _Pheew_ … must've been rough, corralling them all."

"Exactly the point, Son. They _couldn't_ all be recaptured. Some got away in the chaos of what happened next, and established their own enclaves and families, which persist to this day; just as angry, violent and bitter as ever."

Scott turned a few things over in his mind, and then said,

"The Hood?"

Jeff nodded, more visible now, in the rising light of dawn.

 _"And_ the Mechanic, if what I've heard of him is true. Cybernetics cause trouble, no matter who they're in, Scott; they mess with the limbic system, causing wild, sudden outbursts of rage."

Scott thought of John, then, but said nothing. Not to dad, at least. Jeff went on, pausing in his walk as he groped for difficult words and hard concepts.

"There's more. Kyrano was my friend. We met on the Moon, because he wanted to travel; to find out if the rest of the world was really as bad as he'd always been taught. Well… he spent some time up there with Lee and myself… helped out, even, on a few of our early missions."

Jeff stopped talking, balling his hands into fists in his jeans pockets, looking blindly out to sea. Then,

"Everything seemed so simple, back then. The plan was, I'd soften the World Council up about the existence of these meta-soldiers, and Kyrano would bring his family out of hiding, introduce them to the world at large. We'd bring peace. Only…"

"It didn't work out like that?" Scott guessed, briefly touching his father's arm. Jeff sighed. Shook his head, no.

"No, Son. It didn't work out. The Council got scared, and ordered a purge. Kyrano's people decided that he'd betrayed them. They ordered him killed, along with his wife and child. He… called me for help. Lee and I got there as fast as we could, Son… but my friend and his wife were dead…torn to shreds by cyborg assassins. We were in time to save the little girl, though. We did accomplish _that_ much."

"Kayo," whispered Scott. "Dad, I… I'm sorry."

Jeff shook his head; brown eyes turned bleak and inward.

"Not your fault, Son. Not anyone's fault but _his._ The Hood. Don't know what the h*ll his real name is… nobody does. He's not in the gene files. Only knew Kyrano by that one title, either. He'd mentioned his wife, Angeline, and little Tanusha, in passing. That's the only reason I knew what to call her. So… so I brought her home. Thing is, Son… maybe you've noticed she's a lot stronger than average, for a female."

Scott winced and rubbed at his jaw, recalling past sparring matches.

"Yes, Sir. She can go toe-to-toe with _Virgil_. John can pin her down, if he's wearing that suit of his, but she's faster than he is, lately… so maybe not anymore."

Jeff turned from looking inward, to searching his son's handsome face.

"Thing you should keep in mind, Scott, is that she's not… well, her genetic heritage is aggressive, rebellious and predatory. Kyrano and Angeline worked hard to soften that… and I like to think that _we've_ had an effect, too… but you should never assume that Tin-Tin will do the right thing, just because it's the right thing to do. She has… different instincts."

Scott nodded, gilded now by rising sunlight.

"I'll keep that in mind, Sir. It explains a lot… but Kayo has never given us a reason to doubt her loyalty. Wherever she came from… whatever her background… she's as much a Tracy as _I_ am."

Jeff smiled, a little sideways. The expression made him look an awful lot like John.

"There's more, Scott, and again… this is need-to- know. Only to be passed on if you think it's truly vital. We have that blood, too. Just, more mingled with what their kind would call 'homo-typicals'. So, if you've ever wondered: no, you're not 'normal'. None of us are. We're what our ancestor was designed to be, all those decades ago. Your great-granddad escaped Minot Air Force Base, and was picked up at the side of the road by a pretty girl in a big red truck. Her name was Jess, and she didn't mind harboring fugitives. Our bloodline is _his_ , just watered down. Adulterated."

Scott hugged himself; all at once terribly cold.

"Then… that's why he hates us so much? Because we're not _pure?"_

Jeff puffed out a long, gusty sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck with one big, weathered hand. Kicked a few rocks over the cliff, and said,

"That's his excuse, Son. The truth is, I think that the Hood hates like that, because he enjoys it. Just like he gets a big kick out of chaos and death. I don't imagine that the rest of the clan will let him sit there in prison for long… or else they'll replace him with someone even worse. Your guess is as good as mine. But you've got to understand, Scott, that it's never going to be over between us. He won't let it end, until one side or the other's been completely exterminated."

Scott blinked, feeling like he'd swallowed an entire melon at one sitting; rather a lot to digest.

"If you don't mind my asking, Sir… why tell me, _now_?"

"Fair question." Jeff started walking once more, jerking his head to indicate that his eldest should follow. "It's because I've recently discovered how fragile things are. How easily people can die. I didn't want you left in the dark, facing a battle you couldn't quit, and didn't understand. Lee knows… and your Grandma, of course… but they're it. Be very wise in who you share this with, and who you attach yourself to. Our bloodline can be very hard on regular females."

Scott grew very pale, then, as the implication of his father's words sank in and hit home. In the barest whisper, he said,

"We killed her, all of us. _We_ killed mom."

"No, Son. It… you… it's more complicated than that. Hearts go where they want, and bodies follow. You know that your mother became very sick, after John?"

"Yeah. Grandma practically raised him, for the first two years. We weren't allowed to make noise, or bother mom."

"Right. Well, she recovered after a while, but she always felt like she'd missed out on being a real mother, so we tried again, and along came Virgil and Gordon."

"And she was _really_ done in, then," said Scott, in a quiet voice. "But, once she was well, you guys had Alan, and everything seemed okay… so… so what happened? Why did she…?"

Jeff cleared his throat; heart and mind once again elsewhere.

"Your unborn sister. It would have been a little girl, Scott. We'd have called her Chloe. They… they both died. Your grandmother lost one, too, a long time ago. My brother John Robert is buried with your mother and baby sister, back in the States. That's it. That's all I have to tell you, for now."

And that was more than enough. Something happened in Scott's heart and his head, then; having to do with love and desire and self-control. He thought of Penelope. Visualized her crying over a lost child, or, worse yet, dead herself. Feeling suddenly bleak and alone, Scott hugged himself tighter.

His father just stood there; hands in his pockets, staring past the ocean and off into years long gone. There are things a man _can_ do, and things a man _can't_ do, and Jeff Tracy could not break down, or seek comfort from others. Had Scott touched him, just then, he would have been shrugged aside, or snapped at. So, instead, he said,

"Sir, if it's all right with you, I think I'll head back to the infirmary, and see how Brains is making out with John and Captain O'Bannon."

Jeff nodded once, saying absently,

"Sounds good, Son. I'll be back myself, in a little while. Tell your grandmother not to hold breakfast."

"Yes, Sir." Then, "Dad, I…"

"See you in a few minutes, Son."

Scott Tracy ruthlessly suppressed all the stuff that was breaking and howling inside him. Being a man… being a Tracy… he squared his shoulders, said,

"Yes, Sir," and headed back home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Inside the infirmary, early morning-_

She awoke feeling… not just healed, but exceptional; better than she had since her years as a high school athlete. Like everything that had happened the day before was a fast-fading nightmare.

Filled with wonder, she looked around herself quietly, not immediately sure where she was. Then O'Bannon spotted Tracy, sitting in a chair by her sick bed, with his arms folded upon the edge of her mattress, and head resting face-down on his arms. An oxygen mask dangled from the chair, while a blue-striped blanket lay puddled on the floor just behind it. He was in civvies, for once; jeans and a black IR tee shirt. Very softly, she reached over to touch his red-golden hair.

"Not asleep," he said, sounding like a man who'd been up all night. Clearing his throat, John pushed off the mattress and sat up. He looked tired, and somewhat battered, but unbelievably precious to her. Amazed at her own condition, O'Bannon blurted,

"Tracy, it's incredible! Look at me, I'm better than new. Nothing's broken, nothing hurts. I feel ready to get out there and break records in the 100-yard dash!"

"Track and field?" he guessed, covering something that was half cough, half yawn.

"Yup. Everyone needs a sport, if they want to be an astronaut. Makes them seem…"

"Well-rounded," he finished along with O'Bannon, smiling a little. "I know. They loved the baseball thing… _and_ my connection to dad."

Experimentally, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"Ick. I'm still wearing this thing?" she said, of the stained and ripped orange suit liner.

"Well, Kayo was busy, and we didn't want to…"

"Undress me? You're a funny guy, John Tracy. I mean… it's not like you haven't covered most of the territory, already."

He stood up, stretching.

"Yeah… but that was different. We were alone, and you were awake."

O'Bannon hopped out of bed and immediately discovered that she was quite a bit shorter than Tracy, which wasn't an issue in space. Here, she found herself gazing squarely at the gold "5" on the left shoulder of his black tee shirt.

"You're too tall," she informed him, grumpily.

"Sorry," Tracy replied, bending down a bit so she could kiss his cheek.

"That's okay. Point me at the showers and a change of clothes, and we're square. And, um… thanks, Tracy… for whatever it is you did to fix what happened. For turning yourself in (dumbass), for sending your brothers to save my people and me… and for sitting here, all night."

He looked at her very seriously; his blue-green eyes as intent as she'd ever seen them.

"Yeah, well… you told me to process what you said back on my station."

"And…?" O'Bannon was irritated to find herself holding her breath, so she let it all out in a fast, nervous chuckle.

"And, I've decided you're right. You love me."

This time, she really did laugh, shaking her head.

"Tracy, don't ever change. Thanks for the update. Any further announcements, Mister Smooth?"

"Yeah. Showers are this way… and I like you feeling like that about me."

He'd crooked an arm for her to slip her own through, which was terribly sweet and old-fashioned of him. She'd have said something about it, but he was speaking again, saying,

"Your crew's been airlifted to Incirlik Air Base, in Turkey. Brains thinks he can use those self-replicating micro-structures of his to rebuild your station, _and_ our launch complex… so we could both be back in business before you know it… and keep visiting each other. Kayo's shower is that way," he pointed left, at a short, tiled passageway. "Use the other, and you're likely to run into Gordon."

O'Bannon noticed that the walk had taken a lot out of him. His breathing sounded ragged and harsh, like someone in the early stages of super-flu.

"Tracy, maybe you should lie down and let that Brains guy have a look at _you._ You're sounding kind of rough, there, Beautiful."

John pulled her close for a moment, then let go and stepped back. He had never been taught how to speak about love; only to act on it.

"I will, now that you're better. You'll find some of Kayo's gear in the locker beside the shower. Might not fit all that well, but should cover all the strategic territory. If not, I can loan you a shirt."

O'Bannon winked at him.

"Let's go with the shirt. She might get mad, if I take her stuff. Women can be seriously territorial. Besides, that way, I get to wear my boyfriend's tee shirt. You okay with being called a 'boyfriend', Tracy?"

He surprised her by smiling.

"Yeah," he said. "That'll work." And he pulled her close again, briefly; holding her against his heart, and kissing the top of her head. It felt just right, for both of them.


End file.
